


The Cambion Cantrip

by Maldoror_Chant



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional tags/warnings at start of chapter for possible triggers around pregnancy issues, Also the emotional range of a hammer with attitude at times, Angels are a bunch of canon compliant dicks, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cambion, Canon Compliant, Castiel is a BAMF angel of the lord and don't you forget it, Countdown to what is the question..., Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Ditto Charlie, He doesn't always make the best of choices though, Love Rowena!, M/M, Mpreg, Not a sweet and fluffy type of mpreg either, Rated mature for mild body-horror and pregnancy issues, Rowena Rowena Rowena!, Rowena!, Some WAFF eventually, There is a plot-driven reason for it though, countdown timeline, technically only Dean is, warning: Cas is not the baby-daddy, yeah i went there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2019-10-25 01:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 64,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17715377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maldoror_Chant/pseuds/Maldoror_Chant
Summary: Dean’s life is a mess. The Mark of Cain is a ticking time bomb, no-one knows how to get rid of it, and in a stellar show of Worst Timing Ever, Cas suddenly figures out he’s got the hots for Dean. To be fair, the last of these complications… doesn’t suck. Talk about giving Dean incentive to live. Time to curb stomp this curse and grab that happily ever after with an angel of the Lord.… But as it turns out, the curse-beating part has already been handled. Back when he was a Knight of Hell, black-eyed Dean instinctively implemented a solution that will pass the Mark on to an innocent child.Hischild. Evil? Well, yeah, but that’s right up there in a Hell Knight’s job description, along with the fuckton of magic necessary for the anti-miracle of getting himself - a dude - knocked up.Dean is going to have to deal with this insanity and the consequences, but not Cas. No. If Dean has anything to say in the matter, his angel will never, ever find out.Ever.





	1. A Lot Of Things Are Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean has an issue with drink - and not the usual kind, either.
> 
> Extra warnings in Notes for potential triggers around pregnancy issues.

**Twenty months ago in Dean’s sodding excuse for a life, just a few hours after getting un-demonized.**

 

“Well, that sucked,” Dean informs his whiskey double.

The whiskey doesn’t have any immediate comeback. It swirls in its glass confines, breaking up the shards of light from the small reading lamp off to one side. In the lamp’s halo, the tick-tocking clock is telling Dean it’s fuck-this-shit AM and a recently-turned-human like himself should be asleep. 

Side to side the whiskey sways, as if weighing which part of Dean's recent Hell Knight experience he has to hate himself for the most. Is it for the dark greedy joy of hunting down his brother with a claw hammer? Or Cas having to spend almost all of his fading strength to come wrestle Dean, all snarling and demony and damned, to a standstill to stop him?

Dean tosses back the fifth (sixth, seventh...?) shot and finds the answer at the bottom of the glass. Definitely C, both of the above. 

The motion hikes up the edge of his rolled-up flannel sleeve. The reading light paints a hard shadow across his arm, cutting the Mark in two. Dark, light, black, white, human, demon, it’s always there. Fuck this bloody thing.

Fuck demons and their mindjobs.

And fuck this bottle of whiskey. What did Sammy go and buy while Dean was demonized? Sugarlight liquor-free Johnny Walker? He’s emptied half the contents down his throat at this juncture and he isn’t feeling the least bit buzzed.

The ceiling lights come on. The suddenness is a shock that breaks open the darkness like an egg, and out drops a library full of shelves, chairs, stacked books and a brother in PJ pants.

“Dean…”

Awww, fuck his life.

“Sammy, I know you told me to go to sleep.” Dean rubs his face to avoid looking up at his brother’s expression. He’s only been un-demonized for a scant six hours now. Once they were sure he wasn’t going to have a relapse, Cas left to deal with something for Hannah, and Sam sent Dean to bed. As if being a Knight of Hell is the same as coming down with the mumps: a few shots, liquids, bed rest, yessir, all better. It’s a wonder Sam hasn’t made him chicken noodle soup. 

“I tried, but I couldn’t sleep. Got out of the habit. When a demon hops into bed, it's not a pillow he’s aiming to hit, right?”

He tries to make it a joke. It falls predictably flat. 

Sam looks about ready to go fetch the chicken noodle soup after all, but in the end he puts the wretched worried look away and goes for a practical concern instead. “If you don’t get any sleep, you won’t be able to drive tomorrow. We said a vacation would-”

“-do us some good, yeah, yeah, don’t worry, I think I can sleep now,” Dean lies, pushing back his chair. “Goin’ to bed.”

As soon as Sam’s back is turned, Dean reaches for the bottle, just to make sure he’s got half a chance to catch some zzzs tonight. Passing out is a traditional Winchester remedy against recurring nightmares. 

The bottle’s not here. It’s empty and in the garbage.

Dean blinks slowly. Huh. Okay, so he’s shitfaced after all, because he does not remember doing that. Success! Dean snickers sourly and carries himself off to bed. 

When he wakes up at the odious hour of seven AM, his head is oddly clear, but his stomach feels like the bottom of a werewolf’s kennel. He gets up abruptly, irritated at this sudden human frailty he hadn’t had this time yesterday - and ends up hunched over the crapper, hurling out whatever remained of last night’s liquid comfort. Shit, drink’s not done that to him in over ten years. 

Dean hits the flush, solemnly vows to always buy his own booze from now on, and goes to join an obnoxiously fresh salad-and-sunshine-powered Sam for their drive out to that lake for their well deserved break. Too bad Cas can’t join them, but it seems Heaven needs its hero back. 

 

\---

 

**Nineteen months ago in Castiel’s long and rather tarnished career, and a couple of days after the ‘oops’ of letting Metatron escape.**

 

Castiel’s no hero. What he is, as far as his peers are concerned, is a headache. 

Down on earth, when they’d all been cast out, Hannah and the others had been so keen to make him their general, their savior. He’d led them for awhile; gathering their forces, organizing them against Metatron, coming up with plans of attack. He hadn’t done too badly, all in all. Until he threw it all away for the sake of Dean Winchester. 

He’d still managed to save Heaven in the end, thanks to Gadreel’s sacrifice and Metatron’s hubris. Some angels remember that. Others recall that it’s partly Castiel’s fault they’d been booted out of their home in the first place. Up until recently, the Host was evenly split between the pro-Castiel camp and the ‘Please send him down to earth and never mention him again’ faction. 

Then he once again put Dean’s wellbeing above all else, somewhat-accidentally freeing Metatron the day before yesterday in order to help Dean with the Mark. 

Now Heaven is a lot less divided on his subject.

Castiel doesn’t begrudge them their anger. For his part, he has no illusions about himself. He’s not a hero, much less a leader. No. He’s a soldier who turned his back on his duty; an angel who chose earth over Heaven. And those were his _good_ choices. Castiel is a killer and a rebel, a traitor and a one-time fallen god. A being who has made many, many mistakes. They are finally coming home to roost.

“Castiel?”

Castiel looks up. Hannah’s hesitant tone does not sound promising. Maybe… maybe he should have said a proper goodbye to Dean and Sam before driving to Heaven’s portal and coming up here. He might not be going back

He gets to his feet nonetheless, resigned. It feels good to move. He’s been sitting in a bland meeting room in one of Heaven’s managerial wings, the kind of place Zachariah and Naomi once haunted, and he’s been waiting there for more than a day, earth-time. This new revolutionary idea that the Host can govern itself is wonderful, and it’ll hopefully ensure they won’t fall foul of more dictators in the future, but deciding by consensus seems to take an inordinate amount of time. (Then again, back in the good old days, it’d only take an archangel three seconds to decide he didn’t like your attitude, click his fingers and _poof_ , so perhaps a lengthy debate by committee is the lesser evil.)

“So? Have you decided how I am to be punished?”

“... We don’t want to punish you, Castiel.” Which is not the same as ‘we won’t’, he notes. “You are the reason Metatron was in jail rather than in power in the first place. So we are going to let you go, so you can rectify your mistake by finding him and bringing him back.”

“That is merciful, thank you,” Castiel declares gravely.

“While you’re down there, we have other matters we would like you to attend to on our behalf.”

“Oh?”

Hannah is staring fixedly at his left shoulder rather than looking him in the eye. The stiffness of her attitude makes it clear that ‘we would like’ is in fact a stern directive.

“There are still rogue angels that need to be dealt with. Other matters too. We have decided that angels should no longer go down to earth. It is too confusing down there. We will make an exception for you, since you are... acclimatized. But you need to be aware…”

“I’m on thin ice,” Castiel helpfully interprets her pause. 

Hannah glares down at her feet. “I stood up for you, I tried to explain- the problem is the Winchesters.”

“The Winchesters are not a problem,” Castiel says sharply. “I told you Dean did not kill Tessa, it was-”

“They are the problem!” Hannah’s head whips up and she glares at him. “Look at you!”

Castiel glances down at himself. Suit, trenchcoat - he still isn’t wearing a tie, but surely that’s not a problem -

“I watched you present your case yesterday! Straightforward, calm- just coasting along on fatalism and resignation, a dutiful soldier awaiting his sentence. And all I need to say is the name _Winchester_ , and suddenly you’re on the alert, like a dog hearing its master’s voice. Castiel! Don’t you see?! You’re obsessed with them! Particularly with Dean Winchester! The human is a menace, and you went and freed Metatron just to help him! _Him!_ When I tried to do the same for you, you shot me down!”

“We will sort out the Mark.” Castiel’s voice holds an edge of warning, further making Hannah’s point, and he doesn’t care. He will not let the Host harm Dean in order to neutralize him before he falls into corruption again. Yes, the resurgence of a Knight of Hell frightened the angels badly, weakened as they are, but fear is no excuse to do something irredeemable.

“I hope you do, sincerely,” says Hannah in a sour way that makes that last word somewhat doubtful. “Because the Host has decided to treat you as a package deal, so to speak. You - all three of you - need to show the Host that you are allies we can rely on. You, Castiel, need to help us as our agent down on earth, and Dean and Sam Winchester need to get rid of that Mark before he falls into corruption again-...”

Hannah stops abruptly and pretends that’s where she planned on ending her sentence all along. 

Castiel heard the “Or else” loud and clear anyway.

“...Fine. Where do you want me to go?”

“The remaining rogues have found ways of hiding themselves. We can’t pinpoint their locations, but we do have some leads.” Hannah flicks her fingers. Molecules weave and combine within Heaven’s malleable reality. Castiel lifts a hand and a dozen manila folders appear in his grip. This is when he realizes Hannah has not come close to him once in the twenty four hours he’s been here. No angel has. This bothers him more than he thought it would, though not as much as what Hannah implied a minute ago. “I suggest starting in Washington, there's indications Metatron headed that way.”

“Very well.” Castiel turns and trudges off in the direction of the exit. 

… That was unnecessary. The Host did not need to implicitly make Sam and Dean’s safety the warranty on his behavior. But by the time his feet touch down on earth again, the anger boiling deep in Castiel’s being has cooled to resignation. He has much to make up for these past few years. Like two sides of a coin, his redemption in the eyes of his family and keeping his friends safe both depend on his obedience, so obey he will. 

 

\---

**Nineteen months ago, a few weeks of being human again and Dean still can’t enjoy his booze in peace.**

 

“I see. Glad the Host let you off the hook, at least. Good luck in Washington. Give us a call if you need any help, you hear me? Yeah, you too.” Dean disconnects the call (because Cas always forgets to do it on his end; Dean’s been left listening to the sound of a cell phone jostling around in a trench coat pocket before now.) 

Sam looks up from his book in concern. “What’s up with Cas?” 

“The angel squad wasn’t amused that Metatron’s in the wind.” Dean’s not surprised. He’d suggested Cas ignore the recall order and stay right here in the bunker, fuck the halo brigade. But Cas, after some hesitation, decided to go up and sort shit out with his family. Dean understands and disapproves at the same time, the usual mixed bag he feels towards most things angel-related (angels as a group as opposed to the trenchcoat-wearing one.) 

“Is he okay?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s back on earth. They’ve put him in charge of hunting Metatron and other runaways.”

“Oh, that’s good. Right?”

“Better than jail, but not by much, I think.” Dean scratches the back of his head. “When Cas said ‘entrusted with an important mission’, I heard ‘community service’. Picking up angel roadkill alongside the highway sort of thing.”

“Still, useful for us if he does find Metatron,” Sam sighs, nodding back at his book. “I’d love to have more information than the dribs and drabs he gave Cas. I haven't-... really, man? It’s eleven in the morning.”

“So?” Dean pops the cap off the bottle he snagged from the fridge during the phone call. “It’s just a beer.”

“It’s the fifth beer.” 

Dean pauses with the glass near his lips. “No, it’s not.” 

Sam gestures aggrievedly off to one side where, indeed, four more beer bottles lurk on the elegant side table the Men of Letters originally intended for fancy brandy decanters.

“Didn’t know you were counting,” Dean shoots back at his brother before taking a swig. “Anyway, I don’t know what froufrou brew you bought, but it’s weak, I don’t feel a thing.”

He swaps his bottle for the book he’d been reading when Cas called; an 18th century tome about curses penned by one Boris Sheithunberg, Austro-Hungarian refugee in America’s branch of the MoL, yada yada yawn. The only thing Boring Shitbird has taught Dean so far is that you can document the effects of a curse that turns a man inside-out and still make it sound _fucking dull_. 

After a few seconds and the line, ‘Thus it is evident that this malediction cannot be too potent in order to ensure compliance by the subject‘, something nudges his concentration - not that hard to do, really. It’s the lack of response from his brother. It’s rare for a Winchester not to try to have the last word.

He looks up to find Sam staring at him in a worried way. 

“What?”

“...you really don’t feel anything?”

“No.”

“Because that’s one of your normal brands, they just changed the label while you-... were away.” 

Dean blinks down at his beer and oh, yeah.

It’s not Dean’s lack of beer literacy that seems to worry his brother, though. Sam is still looking at him with concern that’s slowly circling the issue rather than charging right at it. 

“It’s weird you didn’t know how much you drank. That is… you wouldn’t drink that much before lunchtime, before…”

“What are you talking about?”

Sam hesitates, licks his lips. “You told me that before you… uh…”

“Went dark side, yeah?”

“That your appetite had flagged.”

“Oh.” That sours the taste of beer in his mouth before he spots the flaw in the implication and shakes his head. “Nah, completely different. I didn’t feel like eating or drinking back then. Now I am drinking, it just doesn’t seem to affect me that much. My liver’s tougher than old boot, that’s all.”

“You sure…?”

“Dude, did I or did I not eat all my pancakes this morning, and then finish yours, and then went and cooked another batch?”

Every pancake point he makes sees Sammy relax a bit more until he even snickers. “Yeah, what the hell was that? Feeding time at the zoo? I have to go back and buy more syrup.” 

“Shut up, they were fucking good pancakes.”

“Yeah, I grant you, they were. And I can understand why you’re hungry after that bout of food poisoning you had there. That’s better, right?”

“Sure,” says Dean, lying through his teeth. He’s still hurling every three days like clockwork, no idea why. At this point he wakes up knowing exactly if and when he’ll toss his cookies that morning, which is helpful, if weird. Means he’s doing shit in the workshop or garage with the handy toilet furthest away from the library and living quarters. He doesn’t want Sammy to worry about it, his brother’s got enough on his plate as it is. 

“So now all you need to do is swap half those pancakes for fruit, slow down on the beer, get some exercise, and think how healthy you’ll be,” Sam says with a smug grin, the salad-munching daily-jogging bastard.

Dean loads a sardonic look into the chamber and pulls the trigger as he reaches for his beer, sight unseen so he won’t miss the bitchface the next sip will earn him-

The bottle explodes before his fingers even touch it. Glass skitters across the table and suds cascade all over Boring Shitbird’s volume.

You can hear the beer bubbles fizzing in the second of stunned silence that follows.

“Okay, that was weird, right?” Dean asks tightly.

“Yeah,” Sam answers, voice hoarse. The instant the bottle went bang, Sam’s hand was at the back of his belt where he usually keeps his piece, though he never walks around armed in the bunker and there is, as it happens, nothing here to shoot. Nothing visible. 

The brothers look at the broken glass and the beer now streaming off the table like a sudsy waterfall. They look at each other. They deliberately close their books on curses, and go get their weapons, EMF reader and different books on the subject of things that make other things explode from a distance, because they live in a place that has books on that.

It’s an intense afternoon, but not very productive, and Dean never does get to drink his fifth beer. 

 

\---

Next Chapter: You Had Me Before Hello

In which Castiel decides to make Dean’s life even more complicated, which is the best bad idea ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Drinking while pregnant (unknowingly) but with no harm caused due to booze suddenly losing its mojo or exploding. Or both. 
> 
> Okay, so, here's the new fic. It bushwhacked me right after the God Machine one, made me write 30 pages in two hours like an author possessed by a particularly literary demon, and then has been fighting me every inch of the way since then. I have a love/hate relation with this fic like you wouldn't believe, but I think I got it beat, and like most works that were very hard during inception, I've got quite a soft spot for it. 
> 
> Fic should be in the 15 chapters range and is already 90% written. Should be updated every Saturday bar real life happening. Comments, kudos, questions and cookies are all very, very welcome, because the 10% is kicking my ass until I feel like Dean's beer bottle there...


	2. You Had Me Before Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel decides to make Dean’s life more complicated, which is the best bad idea ever.

**Eighteen and a half months ago in Castiel’s eon-long lifespan, and two weeks after a beer bottle went boom.**

With his own grace back, Castiel doesn’t get tired anymore. Mundane exhaustion simply can't affect angels, period, it’s a state incompatible with their being. But somehow airplanes perform the ecclesiastical feat of leaving him feeling drained and crumpled every time he takes one. They rumble, they roar, they shake in odd ways he would never have allowed himself back when he was flying under his own steam, and they reek of stress and partings. No wonder Dean doesn’t like them. At least today the plane has the good grace to strand him at the airport at four forty five in the morning. He rather prefers driving at night; less mortals on the road complaining in a language of honks and gestures that his vehicle is moving too slowly for their liking. 

It’s early still when he finally makes his way through the bunker’s hallways. Sam’s sleeping, Dean is starting to stir. Castiel sits down at the library table in Sam’s spot to flip through some notes the hunter took on a case in Michigan. Beneath it is the running diary of research on the Mark. 

This quiet moment after dawn is an opportune time to jump right back onto that. Alternatively, he could use Sam’s laptop to look for leads on Metatron. Or he could just sit here and cogitate on the strange incident of the beer bottle. Nothing else has exploded in the two weeks since that occurrence, and the Winchesters haven’t found anything untoward haunting the bunker, but beer bottles do not spontaneously self-destruct. There has to be something odd and possibly ominous going on there.

Instead of going off in any of those useful directions, Castiel’s thoughts stay stuck on Hannah’s parting words yesterday. She’d called him for his weekly progress report, though in this instance it was more of a no progress summary. The Host have no new leads on their side, leaving Castiel at loose ends, and Hannah suggested he take the opportunity to relocate. “It would be more practical for all of us if you found a safe space near an airport. You don’t have to go rushing back to the Winchesters each time.”

That last part was a slip, he suspects. Hannah quickly wrapped up the call after that, speaking tersely. 

It’s not the first time Hannah's made a pointed remark about his attachment to Sam and Dean. It’s not even the first time another angel - or demon or monster - has mentioned it either. Castiel doesn’t normally dwell on it. Sam and Dean are his charges and his friends. When they’re in danger, a frequent occurrence, he tries to help. And if he can’t do that, at least he can be there for them. There’s nothing strange about loyalty in an angel. 

Nothing strange at all, but today that reasoning he’s never really questioned before lies in his mind like a key in the palm of his hand, and he’s staring at it, wondering what door it’s made to unlock. 

The bunker rumbles and huffs: air circulates, pipes groan, electricity hums, but it feels so much quieter than it actually is in contrast to the airplane and the car. Like being wrapped in a comforting blanket after a winter’s day outside. Angels cannot feel the cold and they have no need of blankets, but Castiel was human for awhile, and he remembers both sets of sensations, a tactile memory that touches his shoulders with the ghost of past warmth. 

This feeling. It is _Home_. He missed this. He misses it every time he leaves. 

“Cas. Hey. Y’re back.” Dean, scratching his stomach through his t-shirt, eyes half closed, heads towards the kitchen.

Home. And Dean.

He misses Dean, too. Every time. 

Above the archway, the clock ticks and tocks, and the hand nudges towards 7:35.

And in Castiel’s mind, the key turns. A dozen tumblers - memories, shared danger, a whole palette of hurt, longing and feelings - line up neatly, and a door swings open.

Castiel sits there, stunned. The clock ticks and tocks some more, since Time still thinks it has to move forward, sidestepping the angel bowled over by an earth-shattering revelation.

When it reaches 7:42, Castiel stirs. He gets to his feet and walks as if in a dream towards the kitchen.

The coffeemaker is burping. The smell of warming bread wafts from the toaster. Dean has nudged the coffee pot aside so the dark liquid runs directly into his mug. He’s propped himself up, hip against the counter, shoulder and head leaning on the upper cabinet, and his eyes are closed. Dean is not a morning person.

“S’up,” he mutters. He hasn’t opened his eyes, he can tell Castiel’s light tread apart from his brother’s. 

Castiel stops two feet away. When he doesn’t say anything, one of Dean’s eyelids hoists up to half-mast. 

“S’ere a problem?” Dean grunts in a voice that intimates there had better not be before the first cup of coffee has done its job. 

Castiel shakes his head.

Dean frowns, opens both eyes, straightens up a bit and examines him. He takes the cup of coffee out from under the flow, and puts the pot back in its stead when drops hiss on the hot metal beneath it.

“What?” He’s a little more awake now. 

“Dean.” Castiel looks at him thoughtfully. “I am in love with you.”

The coffee cup stays poised halfway to Dean’s mouth. His eyes are wide open now.

After a few seconds, he makes a croaking noise at the back of his throat that pushes out a fractured “W-what?”

“In love with-”

“Dude! Don’t- don’t- why would you say that?!”

“...I thought you should know?” Castiel hazards. Why else would he have said it?

Dean puts down his mug, almost missing the counter. His free hand darts up to cover the Mark, then whips away when Castiel glances down. It ends up on his hip, part of an overall tense and irritated pose. 

“You don’t-” Dean rolls his eyes and speaks with utter assurance. “Cas, what did we say about words like that? We got each other’s back, we’re family. Fine, no need to harp on it. That’s what you meant. Right?”

“No,” Castiel says, “I meant I am in love with you. Romantically.”

Dean’s attempt at composure is whisked away like a demon’s smoke after a particularly vigorous exorcism and his hand leaps back to cover the Mark. Only for a second. Then he scowls and turns to lean hard against the counter, pushing against it like the kitchen had started to fall on top of him and he’s now stubbornly forcing it back into place. 

Castiel’s gaze remains on the Mark, though. “This feeling isn’t new. But I didn’t realize what it really was until now. For an angel, these nuances between emotions are difficult. We struggle with the basics at times. I’ve made mistakes since-... you know all this. But even when you and I were fighting each other, you were the most important person in my life.” Dean has always been his lodestar, his north and south, his east and west. He taught Castiel right from wrong, showed him how rebelion could be just and obedience a crime. Even when the fate of the world hung in the balance, threatened by Raphael, even when Castiel was pushed to hurt Sam, a man he considers a brother, even then, Dean was… Dean was an existence Castiel could not conceive of erasing. But now… Castiel gestures at the Mark. 

“This is the first time I’ve lost you. Really lost you. You’ve died before, but I always knew where your soul was. Your soul… is warm, Dean. Strong. Vibrant and kind. I feel more at home in its light than I do in Heaven. But if the Mark wins, I will lose you and I will never get you back. What I’d do to stop that from happening, what I would sacrifice... that’s what made me realize that I am in love with you,” Castiel concludes. 

“And you… still want to-... to-...” the words, half strangled, come out like they’re being pulled with meathooks and his grip on the counter is one of white knuckles and strain. 

Castiel waits for him to finish his sentence.

Dean scowls, rips one arm away from the counter and thrusts it at him, eyes hot and angry. On his skin, the Mark writhes in the space in which an angel can see, a skein of chaos and evil; blood spilled, a brother slain. 

“Yeah? You want to hook up with me? With _this_? This- this shit-stain? This trainwreck?! _This?!”_ A wide savage gesture takes in the Mark, all the rest of Dean and a part of the kitchen too. The look on his face- Castiel knows that look. Much the same as when his Righteous Man had said once that he wasn’t worth saving, as nonsensical a statement back then as if he’d said black was white and holy was sinful. It’s still nonsense, but it’s nonsense Castiel has encountered before, he is familiar with it. 

He hadn’t actually thought as far as the ‘hooking up’ part. Which is strange in hindsight, since Metatron force fed an entire oeuvre of romantic movies and books into his poor cranium. He also knows Dean has had a few trysts with men before, though this is something the angel has been repeatedly told by both Winchesters is Not Discussed Ever (for some reason). But Castiel has a hard time putting together the human puzzle even when he does have all the pieces. In this instance, the strength of his realisation had blindsided him. Only now does he remember that in human books and movies, “I love you,” is usually followed by a lot of talking and misunderstandings before somebody says, “You had me at Hello” and then kissing and intimacy follows.

He and Dean must be at the misunderstanding stage. So Castiel reaches down, covers the Mark with his palm, moves forward sharply to keep the skin to skin contact when Dean yanks away. Beneath his hand, the Mark squirms like a poisonous thing made of chitin, claws and razor blades. Castiel ignores it.

“With this. Without this. With anything and with all of you. But as for the Mark? I won’t lose you to this, Dean. We will find the key to get rid of it. If you fall into corruption, I will find a way to get you back. None of this changes the fact that I love you.”

In Castiel’s eyes, loving Dean fits into the universe the same way gravity does, seamless, natural, beautiful and necessary for the stars and planets to keep on spinning together. If God reappeared long enough to inform His partly-fallen son that this was one of the main purposes of His creation’s architecture, Castiel would be in no way surprised. 

Dean stares at him. Then he closes his eyes, presses the bridge of his nose.

“Cas… Jesus, your timing sucks. Not that this would ever _not_ put me on my ass. You… Bloody hell. Look, I… I don’t see you-... You’re my best friend, okay? But this… I don’t really feel that way-... “ Dean’s start-and-stop sentences are abruptly tossed aside as the hunter straightens. He shakes off Castiel’s grip and makes a cutting gesture with his hand. “Look, nothing’s going to happen. That’s just not in the cards. Got it?”

“Got it,” Castiel says with a nod, and turns towards the kitchen’s exit.

There’s a splutter behind him, then: “Wait! Wait. Don’t-...”

Castiel stops and looks back. 

Dean examines his face. An expression of concern transcends into puzzlement. “... Sorry. I’m sorry I can’t, uh, you know, be that for you… Are you okay? Don’t just leave. You…” Dean’s lips press together, the way they do when Sam tries to draw him out on his feelings. “You want to talk about it?” he offers unenthusiastically.

“Talk about what?”

Dean gives him a very odd look. “You just told me you’re-... that. What you said. And I said no, and now you’re leaving like everything’s fine and the last five minutes didn’t happen. You’re not, I don’t know, disappointed?”

“With what?”

Dean wets his lips. There’s a subtle tension in his body; his hand grasps the counter, knuckles white, as if the arm bearing the Mark is chaining him to the spot while the rest of Dean is tugging against it.

“When you said-... that. Didn’t you hope, that is, didn’t you expect me to, well, give you a better answer?”

Expect? Oh. 

“I didn’t know what to expect,” Castiel explains. “I suppose - yes, in books and movies, in the best case scenario, you’d say you feel the same way. Or you’d kiss me. Or both. But movies and books aren’t the same as real life, I know that. Everything I’ve learned about real human interaction, Dean, I’ve learned from you. How to prepare for that date I thought I had with Nora that one time, or how to answer waitresses when they flirt.” A rush of memories makes him smile. They’re fond recollections: Dean unbuttoning Castiel’s collar while giving him last minute advice; leaning sideways on a bar stool, nudging him with a knowing smile that’s almost proud… Castiel is fond of those memories at any rate, but Dean doesn’t smile back; he flinches, fumbles for his coffee cup and puts it between them like a barrier, eyes fixating on an indeterminate point over Castiel’s shoulder.

“So if you tell me it’s not ‘in the cards’, then you would know,” Castiel concludes, turning away. 

What exactly might had been in the cards, Castiel isn’t entirely sure; the whole “You had me at Hello”-kissing-intimacy bundle, probably. That had been a potential outcome, though Castiel hadn’t thought of it until Dean mentioned it. It's good to know what is or isn't possible. Now he's going back to the library to look for ways to get rid of the Mark and keep the man he loves from disappearing forever, beyond hope of recovery.

He’s near the threshold when a coffee cup makes a firm _clunk_ behind his back. Dean catches up to him in three long strides, grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around. And then there is a mouth pressed against his.

It’s hard and a little awkward; their noses bump and Castiel’s upper lip is caught sharply against his teeth. He blinks rapidly at Dean’s right ear in his direct line of sight, a very confused thought about pizzas going through his multidimensional mind before it’s swept away by an influx of sensation… and an aching, unparalleled love for the man close to him, touching him, the light of his soul as warm as the sun where their lips meet. 

Dean leans back an inch. “This is such a bad idea,” he says. The words tickle Castiel’s mouth. Then he crushes their lips together again. It’s still hard, but the angle is better and the actual reality of what is happening finally takes shape in Castiel’s muddled thoughts. 

...What do you know… the movies got it right after all...

“Dean-” he says when an inch between them opens up again like a curtain parting. 

“Such a bad idea,” Dean whispers against the corner of his mouth, before dropping a kiss as light as a feather against the shiver he’s caused.

“Why?” Castiel asks, confused. And not sure, right this second, if he means, ‘why is it a bad idea’, ‘why did you kiss me then’ or ‘why did you stop?’ 

Some of the manic urgency has left Dean. He leans forward, arms slipping around Castiel’s shoulders and pulling the angel tight against his chest.

“It _is_ a bad idea,” he says quietly in Castiel’s ear. The bunker around them thrums with its well-known muted sounds, the feeling of quiet familiarity blankets them still, it makes the words, the gesture, more meaningful, intimate. “But I don’t care. Cas… I, uh… I wasn't being honest when I said I didn’t feel anything. For you. I don’t see you as just my best friend. But… the Mark. And everything else, Cas, I don’t know. Still-... Metatron killed me. Sunk his blade right into my chest. I felt that metal scrape against my rib, man, I felt my ticker lurch and give out - and I was leaving you alone, you and Sam. I thought I’d never see either of you again. And yeah, it turned out I did and that wasn’t good, but that thought-... I… I know it’s a bad idea, that I’m- that my life’s a mess right now and this ain’t gonna end pretty... I wouldn’t have said anything, but then you drop that bombshell on me and what the hell am I going to do, huh? Say no, when you’re- you’re just laying it out there like that? Lie and say I don’t give a fuck? A better man would do the right thing and tell you to get way clear, but I’m not that better man. I… I want this. And… well, if this happens, then at least I got one more reason to beat this bitch. Right? You and Sammy, you're already everything I’m fighting for, but this gives me a reason to want to live, too.” The last few words are barely a mutter into the shoulder of his trenchcoat. The heat radiating from the cheek near his suggests that Dean is flushed. 

Castiel runs that rambling disjointed speech through his perfect memory and concludes that the movies got the “I love you too” right as well, albeit a very human, very Dean version of the words. When Castiel catches Metatron again, he’ll be sure to thank the little vermin for all his useful information before putting him back in jail for the next eternity.

Dean’s grip on his shoulders tightens. “Just… Cas, promise me. If we do this, if you and I, we, well, we hook up, you gotta promise me that if the Mark wins, you won’t do anything loco to fix it. If we do this, I have to know you can still say goodbye.”

“There has never been a time I’d give up on you,” Castiel points out shortly into Dean’s hair. “Nothing that happens between us now can change that.”

“... You and Sam… peas in a pod… shit… “ Dean sinks his head further into the crook of Castiel’s neck, and the angel feels more than hears ‘Such a bad idea’ moving against his skin.

Castiel’s arms are around Dean’s waist. For the life of him, he can’t remember how they got there. He can feel Dean’s heart knock against his chest where they’re pressed together, a threaded beat. Castiel’s eyes close so he can sink into that rythm, and the warmth, the touch, the soul-light warming his grace, the sheer presence of Dean so close. 

“Whoa! Is everything okay?!”

Both angel and hunter tense.

Dean jumps a foot to the left, arms wrenching away from Castiel’s shoulders. He stares horrified at his brother, standing at the end of the hallway, all sleep-mussed in sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt, his phone dangling forgotten from one hand. 

“What’s going on?” Sam asks anxiously. “Is it the Mark? Cas, is everything okay?”

Castiel thought everything was fine, but looking at Dean’s face, he’s not so sure anymore. Dean stares at Sam like the rabbits in his headlights that Castiel carefully avoids when driving at night. 

“Uh… uh… Sammy…”

Gaze going from his brother’s flushed face to the angel’s composed one, Sam looks a bit less anxious and considerably more confused. “What’s going on? What were you two doing?”

“I think we were hugging,” Castiel says. “Yes, technically it was hugging. But before that, we-” a strangled sound from Dean cuts him short. 

“Uh… okay…” Sam is visibly perplexed. ‘Something is horribly wrong’ was a more believable reason for finding Dean and Castiel clasped together in a hallway than ‘hugging’, it seems, which says something about the Winchester lifestyle. 

Dean hikes his fists up onto his hips and let out a long deep breath like a sigh. “Yeah. Okay. So, here’s the deal. Might as well tell you, ‘cause this’ll probably happen again. Uh, me and Cas... he came into the kitchen and said-... look, the two of us are an item now. Deal with it.” His arm hooks around Castiel’s shoulders with enough strength to knock a human right into him, and Dean gives his brother a challenging look. 

Sam’s eyes go wider than Castiel has ever seen them and his jaw sags. Castiel waits for the surprise to abate, unsure what emotion will follow. He and Sam are very close, despite past mistakes, but Dean is Sam’s only family, and the brothers are extremely protective of each other.

“You… uh… okay,” repeats Sam, whose vocabulary is normally a little richer than this.

His gaze flinches from Dean to Castiel, to Dean again, then something in his frame relaxes. The next emotion arrives on schedule; not reproach or disapproval, as Castiel feared, not outright joy either. A muted concern.

“That’s… a surprise. I mean, I sort of wondered- hell, what am I saying, I’ve been wondering for years, but I’m still surprised. If this was going to happen, I thought it’d be ages ago, not-... well, now, what with everything.”

“The Mark dragging me to damnation?” In contrast to Sam’s careful words, Dean’s are clarion-clear. “Yeah, that crossed my mind. What a great time for my life to get even more complicated, right?”

“I didn’t say that!” Sam’s eyes are wide again as he makes quick ‘whoa!’ gestures in their direction. “Dean, I’m glad for you guys! This is great, this-”

“This _is_ a fucking complication and a distraction I don’t need right now, I am still borderline damned and demonized, but tell me, Sam, you ever see me get anything in my life that was easy?”

Sam opens his mouth as if to protest. Then emotions like quicksilver follow each other over his features, too quick for an angel to read. In the end, though, he smiles, warm and a little rueful. “No. I’ve never seen you get anything easy and good in your life you didn’t have to fight for. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have it. Fuck the Mark, we’ll figure it out, right? So go for it.”

“Like I needed your ‘go get em’,” Dean sniffs, but the way tension leaches out of his arm and shoulders, Castiel figures Sam’s approval mattered anyway.

“Whatever, jerk,” Sam says magnanimously. 

“Suck it, bitch. And go away. I’m gonna kiss this guy again, which was what we were in fact doing before your barged in,” Dean declares with a jagged smirk, before putting words into action.

Sam’s response, the whole conversation, his doubts, the fact that both brothers think this is ‘a bad idea’ - even Sam’s presence - all vanish from Castiel’s reality right then and there. The kiss is no longer desperate, it’s open mouthed, humid and warm and teasing, and full of tongues tangling. Heady, rich with promise, it presses him back against the door jamb and makes odd things thrum and stir deep in his vessel.

He’s only distantly aware of Sam beating a hasty exit with an overloud “Ew!”, then shouting from the corridor beyond, “Do that somewhere else! Some of us want coffee and breakfast!” 

Somehow - exactly how is both irrelevant and impossible to remember - they end up in the recreation room, two doors down from the kitchen where Sam has turned on his phone to blast music. Dean shoves Castiel down into the couch’s saggy embrace (it’s a relic from a flea market, not the bunker’s original, but the brothers like it better than the stern leather-covered chesterfield it replaced.) He straddles Castiel’s hips, knees sinking into the cushions, and kisses him in a way that makes Castiel grateful he does not actually need to breathe. 

Dean does, though. Eventually. When he finally breaks for air, “Been wanting this forever,” rushes out on the exhale. His breath brushes Castiel’s mouth, enters his lungs, bathes him in warmth, like the feeling of sunshine he’s getting from Dean’s eyes, his soul. 

Castiel’s hands are on Dean’s hips, which is a good place for them to be. They’re more on the ball than the rest of him. His collar has mysteriously sprung three buttons, his shirt is rumpled and pulled partly out of his pants, which feel tight and uncomfortable, and his trenchcoat is askew on his shoulders. He feels flushed, his hair is messier than usual, his lips prickle, sensitized from all the stimulation, and he’s having a hard time looking away from Dean’s mouth, the way he just licked his lips holds him captive. It is, to describe the situation in one word, wonderful. 

“Why… you said earlier, you suggested rather-... Why didn’t you say anything about a relationship before?”

“Right,” Dean snorts, watching his fingers trail deliciously along the lines of Castiel’s open collar. “Just when, between all the death and disaster and- and getting conned by bloody Gadreel into kicking you out, would I have worked that into the conversation? Huh?”

“We have been in danger almost continuously,” Castiel concedes. 

“Still are, but I don't care anymore.” Dean tilts Castiel’s head back, leans in. Talking is put on hold again. 

Fingers slip beneath Castiel's shirt where it is pulled from his pants, and caress the skin of his waist, easing under the belt. Then something changes. 

“Okay. Slow down.” Dean leans back abruptly. He looks down with a frown as if he’s only just now realized their position, and is startled and somewhat wary of it. “We gotta make shit clear. Is this okay?”

“Yes?” It’s definitely an affirmative, it only comes out as a question because Castiel can’t for the life of him imagine why Dean would think any of this is not okay. 

“Because this is fine with me right now,” Dean says pointedly. 

Castiel nods, glad to hear it. 

“We can do this at your speed.” Dean is scrutinizing him carefully, leaning back to get a good view of his face rather than a piecemeal closeup. 

“Speed?”

“Yeah. I don’t mean to hustle you. I just need to know. Right?” 

Castiel doesn’t feel hustled. Perplexed, yes, also aroused, but not hustled.

Dean looks at him some more, then his eyes flicker shut. “I'm talking to myself here.”

“No, Dean, you're talking to me.”

Usually when Castiel points out the obvious, it turns out he’s either wrong, or else the obvious was in fact rhetorical and didn’t require a response. Either option traditionally earns him an eye roll followed by a short sarcastic correction. But not today. Today, Dean gives him a look of such amused tenderness, it fair takes an angel’s breath away. 

“I'm saying I'm fine making out on this couch for months if you're, you know, not ready to go further yet,” Dean explains, voice gentle and warm.

The penny drops.

“Oh, you’re talking about sex.”

“Huh-uh. Seeing as how you only did it once…”

“With a mercenary reaper who then tried to kill me. I would like to repeat the experience without that last part.” In Castiel's estimation, having only had sex once is a very good reason to do it again, though of course it would be up to Dean. And with Dean. It is always, one way or another, about Dean; revolving around Dean, running towards Dean, saving Dean, finding Dean, loving Dean, and this would be just one more way to do that. “I especially want to do it with you.”

Dean smiles, the movement of the lips slow, rich and full of sensual promise. “... When you put it like that… Bedroom. Now. Let's go give Sammy a real reason to crank up the volume.”

The rest of the morning in Dean’s bedroom proves to be very interesting and educational. So does the following night. 

Early next morning, before the coffee maker’s even had a chance to engage, Sam’s found himself a solo hunt on a ridiculously tenuous lead ‘just to get away from the blast radius’, and so the next few days prove very interesting and educational in various other corners of the bunker as well. 

\---

Next chapter: Fading ink  
In which it’s clear that Dean’s life is looking up at last!


	3. Fading Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it’s clear that Dean’s life is looking up at last!

**18 months ago, and two weeks since Dean’s life took an unexpected turn for the better**

“Dude, stop it,” Sam huffs without looking up from his toiletry kit.

Dean stops, toothbrush in mouth, and glances at his brother. “Hmrfwah?”

“You’re humming again.”

Oh, right; he hadn’t noticed. Dean shrugs and resumes brushing, making sure the humming is extra loud and obnoxious. This gets the requisite sour puss from his brother’s reflection in the mirror. 

“Yeah, we get it,” Sam grouses, rolling his eyes towards the motel’s bathroom ceiling adorned with mold in the corners. “You’re happy, flowers are blooming for you and rainbows are everywhere, but can you maybe tone it down for the sake of those around you?” There’s a small grin lurking on the side of his face that’s away from Dean, but the mirror betrays him. 

Dean switches from ‘Thunderstruck’ to ‘Who Do You Love’. The toothbrush makes it even more metal.

Sam shoves him. Dean hip-checks him back. Sam returns to rooting around the toiletry kit, his grin now spread out like a banner. 

Dean rinses, spits- and freezes, gaze caught in the mirror. He avoids looking at the Mark habitually, like a man avoids looking at the tumor slowly killing him, but wiping his mouth brought it into view.

“What’s up?” Sam stops his disgusting flossing to quizzically look at Dean, still motionless.

“Nothing.” Dean quickly puts away his kit, deciding not to shave. Cas is away tracking some opportunistic demons who staged a raid on a heavenly outpost, stealing some artifacts and a couple of angel blades before hightailing. The brothers won’t see him for a few days at least, and Dean doesn’t feel the need to look good for the Sasquatch.

His movements slow as his eyes are drawn back to the Mark.

“...Sam?”

“Hm?”

“Does this… does this look lighter to you?”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up and he aims a penetrating stare at Dean’s arm. 

“Well… it’s probably the light. Here, let’s go to the window.”

They stand next to the room’s mustard-color curtains and let the morning light of Wyoming fall right on the Mark. They stare at it. The Mark that branded Cain a fratricide stares right back, an ugly scar like someone’s doodled on Dean’s arm with a red hot poker. But… it looks slightly less angry today. A little less red...

“Probably our imagination,” Sam finally concludes.

“Yeah, wishful thinking. Come on, that ghost isn’t going to salt and burn itself.”

Three days after Casper’s gone up in smoke, they’re back in the bunker, and wishful thinking has lightened the Mark a little more. But it doesn’t mean anything. Summer’s in full swing, Dean’s getting a tan, which makes the inkstain-of-the-damned stand out less. So he tells himself repeatedly, while wishing he’d had the brains to take a photo of the thing back when he first got it. 

Not that he’d ever be so lucky as to have the bloody curse just go away on its own…

Dean rolls up his sleeve for the hundredth time, an exercise in frustration and futility both. Staring at it makes it seem different each and every time, like the fucking thing’s doing the mambo.

Yanking down his sleeve, he re-focuses on the illuminated and engraved text from some drunk eleventh century twat of a monk who thought curses could be broken by ingesting heavy metals corresponding to a person’s ‘domanante pryncipe’. The book claims to be in english and fails rather spectacularly; fortunately a Man of Letters wrote a translation of the volume along with a margin commentary of ‘Oh dear, I really wouldn't try this’. But the Winchesters have already explored all of the reasonable options by now, so.... Dean lasts a minute, maybe two, trying to figure out how much arsenic can actually kill him, and then he’s no longer looking at the worn vellum but at his phone. His cell’s been getting the same kind of embarrassed difficult-to-admit-to scrutiny as the Mark. 

Cas is _fine_ and in California, and Dean feels so much like a teenage girl wondering when her crush will call, he’s going to need a training bra any second now. 

If only Heaven hadn’t gotten its panties in a twist over Metatron. They’re dishing out all these Mission Impossible duties on the only guy they have legitimately left on Earth. Cas is on the road more often than not, instead of where he belongs, a.k.a. hunting with the Winchesters or tucked into Dean’s bed. It’d be an especially bitter pill to swallow if it turns out the Mark is fading on its own, and they never needed that little rodent Metatron in the first place.

Not that the Mark is fading, of course. Dean’s just getting tan. There’s no way the fucking thing will pull a Houdini. The universe doesn’t work that way. Not for Dean. He knows this. And yet.

It’s not a fragile little hope that’s blooming deep in his soul, because that couldn’t survive Dean’s life experience to date, no. It’s a hardened killer of a hope that kicks down doors and just won’t die, the kind that other emotions cross the street to avoid, and it keeps on bringing back suggestions for him like it’s dragging bodies in for bounty...What if… ? Cain is still out there somewhere with his own Mark - which is legitimately his own, it’s right there in the fucking name. Since it’s not the Mark of Dean Winchester, maybe it’s fading now, transferring fully back to its original owner. Cain seemed to think it was permanent, but had he ever actually passed it on to anybody before? Or what if… what if the cure that un-demonized Dean had an unintended effect on the Mark? Cain never had his black eyes reversed, after all, maybe it’s as simple as that? 

He told Cas the angel gives him a reason to live. It’s almost beyond hope that he’ll actually be able to do so… Cas is being very philosophical about the fact that they could have been boning for years now if fate - death, disaster, the usual - hadn't cockblocked them at every turn. The angel seems to think that hooking up happened when it was supposed to. But that's an immortal point of view if Dean ever heard one. Dean can’t be that sanguine about it; the thought of all the years he might have had with Cas versus the countdown of months on his arm keeps him awake every night Cas is not there. So the thought the Mark might fade, that they might have accidentally beaten it, is alluring. He might get out from under it. Cas and Sam might escape the obligation of putting down the rabid thing he’ll become…Shit. It makes him dizzy, he wants it so bad. 

Dean sips his diet coke, eyes fixed unseeing on a row of Men of Letters diaries from boring old coots on a shelf opposite his table. The bubbles prickle his nose. He’s given up on alcohol somewhat. After his stint as a demon - and the exploding beer bottle incident - it seems booze doesn't give him the same kick anymore. He continued to drink anyway out of sheer habit for awhile, but, well.... maybe Dean’s drinking more since he can’t pace himself, or something else is going on, but it’s a fact his jeans are getting rather snug around the waist these days. His six-pack’s been getting the same kind of scrutiny as the Mark and the phone this last week. He’s always been solidly built, but now he suspects he’s getting just a bit paunchy… And since he actually has a guy seeing him naked in bed nowadays - and the booze doesn’t help anymore with the worry and the sleeping and the stress - it makes sense to cut back down on the calories. Sam noticed his switch to sugar-free soft drinks, but only made fun of him a little bit, which suggests his brother was rather concerned with Dean’s alcohol consumption, or else the moose has simply developed a survival instinct at long last.

Though of course there’s nothing wrong in having love handles. Perfect for giving someone a really nice grip...

The row of venerable books get a rather leery smile directed at them. It’d felt like committing five different kinds of blasphemy, dragging an angel off to bed three seconds after the weird dork had trotted out his equally weird declaration right there in the kitchen. Dean’s concern that he’d jumped the gun had been allayed by Cas, and then some. In this particular curriculum, Cas has been a quick student, or maybe Dean is just that good of a teacher, but either way, in the last two weeks whenever the guy is home, the sex is spectacular.

(Dean is perfectly aware on some plane or other that the sex is, in fact, merely okay, nowhere near some of his previous Olympic gold standards, and that what makes it feel so shiny and new is down to who’s involved. But as a _guy_ , he’s more comfortable with ‘we’re having unrivalled mattress time’ rather than ‘I love you so much I don’t want to even think about being with anybody else again as long as I live.’ Not since booze stopped working on him, at any rate.)

The smile directed at the diaries is more tender now, a little dreamy. Dean quickly glances around - coast clear, Sam is who-knows-where, jerking off to a video of dancing unicorns or something, who knows. Dean sips his coke absently and lets himself dream- speculate, that is, speculate. 

The demon cure is a factor, true, and there’s something else Cain never had: lots of sex with an angel. What if… after all, traces of Grace can be found in an angel’s blood - even if it is technically the vessel’s blood - so maybe it’s in - hah! - in other fluids as well. Fluids with which Dean has been self-medicating quite a lot recently. Wouldn’t that be crazy? How do you beat the Mark of Cain? Angel juice, taken orally or indeed any which way, a steady diet for as long as Dean lives, as far as he’s concerned… The only possible problem he can see with this solution is that the Men of Letters would expect their legacies and last scions to do a scientific write-up on this cure and keep it in the journals for future generations, and hell if _that’s_ gonna happen.

Actually, never mind: he’ll publish every detail in those brainy magazines Kevin once read - with pictures, diagrams and a poster centerfold - if it means he can actually get away from this curse. No more doom hanging over his head, no more apocalypses, just regular hunting with Cas at his side for years to come, decades-

“Dean.” 

Dean almost spills his coke. He wipes his mouth, checking he’s not got soft drink on his chin and to hide the expression he was probably making before Sam can round the table. 

Sam drops into the chair next to Dean’s, making it skitter an inch on the hardwood. He has a paper in his hands, it looks like a print-out of some news article. 

“A bunch of rich jerks got roofied at an expensive golf resort in Denver,” Sam says, intense excitement in his voice.

“Glad to hear it...?” The paper shoved in front of his nose says, ‘Five fall victim to cruel prank at Bellevue Golf’, and he sees ‘psychotropic’ and ‘hospitalized’ in the byline before it’s snatched away. Sam taps it with the back of his hand.

“The paper just says that five ‘pillars of the community’ are in ICU - one critical - after ingesting some drug allegedly slipped to them by an unidentified person after an altercation, investigation ongoing, police asking for witnesses to come forward, the usual. But I placed some calls. What really happened was: these rich entitled jerks made fun of a petite red-headed woman dining alone in the club’s fancy restaurant. They thought she looked trashy. She came over and told them off in a scottish accent until the staff escorted her off the premises - forgetting to make her pay on her way out, for some reason. Five minutes later, the idiots drank from the bottle of stupidly expensive wine that’d been chilling in a nearby bucket, and they all five of them became convinced they were pigs.”

“Sounds like they were.” Dean grabs the paper and starts to skim over the details.

“I mean, real pigs, the barnyard kind with large appetites and a mud fixation, the whole nine. They started running around on all fours, chowing out of people’s plates and wallowing in the dirt of the atrium. In the chaos, some diners swear they saw curly tails, though the ICU people are keeping quiet on that, not surprisingly.”

“Ah.”

They both stare down at the page in Dean’s hand. 

“It might not be her.” Sam’s playing devil’s advocate even though he’s the one who picked up the lead and dug up the dirt. “After all, none of them actually died.”

Dean deliberately folds the print-out and stands up. “It’s her. She must have just been in a good mood that day. Get your gear, Sammy, we’re going to Colorado.”

 

\---

 

**A little less than eighteen months ago, a couple of days after Castiel has had words with some demons regarding their smash n’ grab**

“Rowena?” Castiel casts his mind back. “You mean, the witch?”

“Yeah. She’s finally resurfaced.” Dean doesn’t bother lifting his head from Castiel’s shoulder. Sweat from their earlier activity peppers both their skins where they connect. They could put on some clothes, theoretically, if the thought wasn’t anathema. 

“The one you encountered in a bar? Who hexed some humans to attack you?” Castiel stares fixedly at the motel ceiling, as clean as can be expected in this small town hanging like an unripe fruit off the vine of a highway, somewhere between Colorado and California. The angel managed to catch up with the hunters at their motel late in the evening, while they were having greasy burgers and fries in the attached diner. Sam, with an eye roll that masked a warm smile, went to book another room as soon as Castiel showed up.

“That’s the one.”

“Crowley’s mother?”

“So they say.”

“ _That_ is who you are going to ask for help?” 

“Yeah, though by ‘ask’, I mean ‘threaten at gunpoint’.”

That’s not all that reassuring. “Is that wise?”

“Wise? Not even a bit. But we passed wise back when I went black-eyed bitch, and now we’re cruisin’ towards ‘fuck it, then’, population, me.”

Castiel opens his mouth to object, but he can’t. Dean asked him earlier, while they were undressing each other and before they had sex, if Castiel could see any difference in the Mark. His manner was strange, as if the question was a deadly serious joke. The strength of the pigmentation means little or nothing to angelic senses; the grime gradually darkening Dean’s pure bright light is still there. True, ever since Sam cured the demon who’d been his brother, the curse has been less bloody and strident in Castiel’s senses. He suspects that succumbing to corruption and then being redeemed has reset the progress of the Mark, and maybe put it in a remission of sort. But overall Dean is still damned and in danger. Anger, stress, fighting could all start the progression towards corruption again, while something as simple as a car accident could end it all in one fell blow. Yet they still don’t have a single lead on how to get rid of it, bar this dubious way forward.

“Very well. I’ll go with you.”

Dean lets his hand slide down Castiel’s chest lazily. Castiel isn’t even sure Dean is aware he’s doing it, since he’s still discussing this idea of tracking Rowena. Dean is a tactile lover, before, during and after sex, maybe to make up for the lack of touch when they’re not alone. Outside of a bedroom, they are exactly the same as they have always been, keeping a distance the human has finally convinced the angel is the norm. When the door closes behind them, Dean changes, everything changes. Castiel does not understand these distinctions, but he wants Dean to be comfortable and happy. Keeping at a distance when they’re in public makes Dean happy. Getting naked and wrapped in each other when they’re alone makes Dean _very_ happy. It’s not hard to stick to, Castiel finds, and Dean… well, a happy Dean is worth any number of human rules and restraints. 

“- got the network on it, we’re watching the papers, the hospitals and the morgues. If we cover all the bases, she can’t hide forever. If you can come with, I’m all for it, but it might take a few days. Weeks, if she’s careful. Didn’t you say you had to leave again soon?”

“This is more important,” Castiel says, and can almost imagine Hannah materializing near the footboard to say it certainly is _not_.

“We’d like to have you onboard if you can swing it, Cas. Especially if that means you delay your trip to whatever-land by a couple weeks-”

“Ecuador.”

“- by which time Willy will have my new fake passport ready.”

Castiel frowns, while his hand, without any orders, drifts down Dean’s shoulder, his arm, drops to his hip… “Didn’t Willy tell you there were new protocols in airports now, and that he thought your face might still be on some watchlist-”

“Pff, what does he know. He’s got the easy job. I’m the one who has to take a fucking plane to some country south of the border, he’s just gotta grind out a good fake. But you are not tossing the jungle upside down by yourself, looking for AWOL soldier-angels who sound like the kind of toughs who chew gravel instead of gum.” The caressing hand had turned into a hard finger pressing each point into Castiel’s chest. “I know you can handle that knife, Cas, but seriously, can’t Hannah spring for some backup? Are those feathery assholes up there trying to get you killed?”

“I am sure they are not,” Castiel assures him, though he’s wondered himself a few times.

Right outside the door, a machine making ice clicks, clacks and hums to itself. Dean instinctively glances that way, hand stilling on Castiel’s skin. When he looks back, he doesn’t resume the caress. The short, tangled silence between them acknowledges the truth: that their lives usually end up in the worst configurations, that it’s almost certain Rowena will resurface at the same time the Ecuador lead firms up enough where Hannah will order Castiel to go, willing or not, and that they will each face their own challenges separately, bleeding a little inside every moment they’re apart…

“Enough talking,” Dean says - almost growls - grabbing Castiel’s jaw and leaning in for a rough, long kiss. 

Hands sweep down his body with a purpose this time, and a mouth follows. Castiel gasps, making Dean snicker somewhere near his thigh. 

“You up for this?” Dean murmurs, voice a caress, a whisper of lust against flesh. Finger trail past a rallying erection, downwards. 

“Yes.” The forthright way he says that makes Dean chuckle. Hands caress down, thumbs kneading his thighs as his legs are pushed apart, and then- oh! Castiel lets his head fall back into the pillow and closes his eyes, diving into the sensation swamping his vessel and making his higher being thrum, pushing the future and all his worries as far away as possible. 

...A splintered thought stays lodged in his mind, a wish that he could fly again. That’d get him to the location of these misbehaving angels in no time, and then his wings could take him back to Dean’s side in a human heartbeat. Beyond the convenience, he really misses flight. The power of flinging himself through the Ether. The grace of spiralling past churning stars and around the calm blue marble of the Earth. The softness of air flowing past him like a caress.

Making love to Dean is like flying. 

His hands drift down to where Dean is doing something truly delectable with his tongue and fingers. Then his lover surges forward, urgent, demanding, desperate for refuge inside of him. Castiel wraps him in his arms and encourages him, holding him fast. 

He wants to stay at Dean’s side, share the dangers, fall into bed with him every night - shoved back into the mattress while Dean leaps on him with a ragged grin - or simply sit and watch the two Winchesters sit at the kitchen table, eat lunch and argue…

One day, when the Mark is gone. One day, when all the rogues are captured and Heaven loses interest in the goings on down here… one day it will happen. What counts right now, Castiel decides, as Dean began to move in him, what counts right now is the _now_.

\---

Next chapter: Oops

In which Dean gets a PSA on preventing unwanted demonic pregnancies, a little too late as it were.


	4. Oops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean gets a PSA on preventing unwanted demonic pregnancies, a little too late as it were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in the end notes.

**A little over seventeen months ago, and the Winchesters are doing what they do best.**

For all Reno is a big place, it’s not hard to find the witch. The bar is glitzier than the ones the brothers usually stop at, but it’s the kind of haunt their target favors. More to the point, there’s a dozen people standing in the parking lot, eyes wide and vacant, including a guy in a black suit and bowtie who has ‘upscale bartender’ written all over him. Might as well have a sign reading Private Function For Witches Only up on the fancy copper-contoured doors.

“Let me take point,” Dean cautions. “She can’t hit me with her voodoo.”

Sam scoffs. His gun is loaded with witch-killing bullets and his face with an impressive scowl. “I know what to do.”

“Don’t let her close enough to slip a hex in your pockets, is all I’m sayin’.”

“Dean. I know.”

“I’d turn down any drink she offers too.” Dean knows damn well Sam could do this in his sleep, but they’ve spent the last fourteen hours driving across country and crisscrossing Reno, and yanking his brother’s chain is the only pick-me-up at hand in this ritzy area devoid of good diners and decent joe. 

Sam makes an exasperated noise and heads towards the door. Dean has to lengthen his strides to catch up with the big emu.

Rowena is sitting at a table dead center of the floor. Neons tastefully concealed by dark blue velvet drapes put purple reflections in her hair. The taped tinkle of some generic piano tune is the only sound in the bar, other than the clink of her glass as she put it down next to the highly expensive-looking bottle of whiskey she’s certainly not paid for.

“Greetings, boys. I had a feeling ‘twere you two on my trail.” The words roll out in her rich accent. She sounds a little sloshed. Good. 

“If you knew we were following you, why didn’t you run faster?” Dean asks, striding up to her table.

“Please. As if I needed to be wary of you two.” The way her gaze flickers from one to the other Winchester belies her flippancy.

“You do know what we do for a living, right?” Dean idly thumbs his gun’s magazine out, letting the bar’s mood lighting shine off the sleeve of the first Witch-B-Gone bullet in line.

“Yes, dear, I am perfectly aware,” Rowena informs him archly. “I am also aware you have greater concerns than a beautiful and talented lady who has no particular wish to cause harm, as long as she’s allowed to-”

“We’ve been tracking you since Denver. Remember Denver?”

“...Those fellows were remarkably rude.”

“I bet. But you can stow the ‘I’m harmless’ routine, Rowena.”

“Very well.” Her nails, blood red, idly tap the glass. Her lips are the same color as she smiles, the expression controlled to a fault. “Shall I begin the ‘you obviously need something from me’ routine instead, Dean?”

Dean swaps a quick look with Sam, who’s circled around at a prudent distance so he has a clear shot at the witch without having Dean in his line of fire. Sam looks pretty unhappy. Dean’s not overjoyed himself.

“Crowley says you’re a somewhat capable witch.” 

Click- _click_ go the nails on the glass.

“And that you know your curses.”

“Aye. Which is why you’ve come to see me, isn’t it?” She smiles like the cat whose hostile takeover of the dairy market has cornered all the cream factories. “My wee boy told me about your… problem.”

“Was that before or after he kicked you out for being a manipulative bitch?”

For an instant, the real Rowena flashes a fang through the elegant mask. If looks could kill, Dean would be nailed to the far wall like one of those fancy mirrored panels. But it’s only for a moment. The lady is smart and yes, manipulative, and she knows they want something from her they’ve not found anywhere else. That’s not a winning combination for the Winchesters.

“My darling lad and I are a bit on the out at the moment, that is true. Misunderstandings happen in the best of families, and he is under so much pressure, the poor dear. But his mother will find a way to look out for him, even if some people have tarnished my reputation behind my back. For instance, if I assist his good friend Dean Winchester-”

In the background, Sam makes a rude noise.

“- that should go a long way to smoothing out matters between us.”

Huh. Does that mean she’s trying to worm her way back into Crowley’s good graces? Or is she looking to get close enough to stick a knife in his back? Are either of these options any skin off Dean’s nose? Not really. He holsters the gun and takes a step closer, ignoring Sam’s faint noise of protest off to one side.

“Let’s cut to the chase, because I’m sure we’d like to get out of each other’s sight. Help get this Mark off and I’ll forget to put a bullet between your eyes, at least until the next time we meet.”

“Such a gracious offer,” Rowena answers, her voice arching like a cat’s mew. “May I suggest-”

“Nothing. You suggest nothing. First you take a look at my problem and tell me if you think you can actually help. Knowing that my brother will blow your head off if you make any move he don’t like the looks of.”

“I suppose that is an excellent place to begin,” Rowena concurrs smoothly as she gets to her feet, all poise and polished nails. “Let me see it, then.”

Dean hoists up his sleeve. Rowena looks down her nose at the Mark with an unimpressed air which slips and staggers, and only comes back, limp and unconvincing, a full three seconds later. Her eyes flicker up to Dean’s and then down again. 

“That-...ah, that is odd,” she says after a while, staring down at the Mark.

“Odd?”

“It appears to be not as… potent as it was before.”

Prickles run up and down Dean’s skin, and that savage hope he thought he’d beaten down days ago kicks down the door and starts a gunfight with Experience, Pessimism and Foreboding. 

“But... it is strange… I did not feel any difference in your aura when you walked over...” Shaking out her mane of red hair, Rowena regains her full composure. After rummaging around in an old-fashioned carpet bag - and assuring Sam he is a ‘silly little boy’ for making threats at her to keep her hands where he can see them - she takes out a piece of quartz, a hex bag (Dean stiffens and the hammer on Sam’s gun creaks) and a necklace made of bird bones - hopefully bird bones. She slips the necklace on, puts the hex bag in her own pocket, then holds the quartz an inch from the Mark. Dean feels something odd on his arm, like a warm tingle, but nowhere near as pleasant as those two words normally imply.

“Hmmm.” Rowena’s eyeshadow is almost black in the bar’s overly egregious mood lighting, it makes her eyes even more piercing as they narrow. 

She steps nearer, once more ignoring Sam’s threats, and runs the stone in the area around the Mark. A faint frown flickers over her brow. Dean suspects he only saw it because she’s real close.

He gestures Sam to stand down. Sam hesitates, then lowers the gun and takes a few careful steps towards them. Rowena, absorbed as she holds the quartz above Dean’s elbow, does not seem to notice.

The quartz travels up and down Dean’s arm, across his neck, chest and abs, and eventually ends up over his belt buckle. Rowena scowls and yanks on the necklace absently, powdering her decolletage with some speckles of flaky reddish-brown paint (hopefully paint). 

“What are you-”

“Hush.” The warm tingle grows. And grows until Dean's whole upper body is thrumming like a car engine on idle.

Rowena’s face goes blank, and then her jaw sags in a way that is quite unlike her.

“What-” the squawk is also the opposite of her usual polished tones. She catches herself with a gasp and stares at the quartz while making circular motions over an increasingly irritated Dean’s stomach area.

“Lady, do you need glasses? The Mark is up _here_ -”

“Quiet!” 

It’s not the order so much as the bowled-over expression she’s trying to hide that shuts Dean up. The bar is quiet, even the random piano noises fade into the background. 

Rowena clears her throat. She collects her crystal, bag and necklace, puts them away and sits back down tidily, legs crossed, hands folded over the top knee, back straight, and obviously still reeling a little despite the return of her poise.

“Tell me, Dean…” She appears to pick and choose her words, discard most of them, go back to the pool for more. “...You wish me to remove your curse? Is that correct?”

“Huh? Of course.” Dean stares at her. 

She looks at him probingly in return. “I see. I… see. Tell me, dear, have you tried any other means of removing that Mark?”

“...No. We’ve researched, of course, but-”

“This would be an actual-... attempt,” Rowena interrupts, still staring at him piercingly as if she can rip out the answer to a question she seems unwilling to formulate.

“No.”

“This attempt might have happened, say, three months ago? Give or take a couple of weeks.”

Three months ago? “Definitely no. I was a demon back then.” Unless - could she be talking about the demon cure? That might just about squeak into that timeframe if you knock off an extra week.

“A demon?!” Rowena’s hands lose their grip on her knee and make her wobble in her seat. “What do you mean?”

“Didn’t your ‘boy’ tell you?” Dean smirks, hard and tight. Despite his distaste towards the entire episode, it feels good to take the witch’s attitude down a few notches. “The Mark turned me into a demon after an annoying cockroach of an angel murdered my ass.”

Rowena makes a noise that Dean is almost ready to swear is “Lawk!” She clears her throat and scrabbles for poise. “A demon you say. What… what kind of demon?”

“A Knight of Hell.” If Dean’s going to be a demon, he’s going to be the toughest badassiest there is. No wheelin’ dealin’ crossroads demon, not him.

“Oh dear.” Rowena’s voice has gone faint and she is staring at Dean’s gut again, what the fuck.

“What?” Dean asks her tightly.

Rowena is silent for quite a long time, ignoring both brothers’ prompts to talk. Her dazed look fades into an odd one for a moment, then is taken over with the much more familiar calculating expression, though a somewhat watered down version thereof.

Finally she shakes herself.

“Well, my dear. I have some good news. Your Mark is fast vanishing.”

Hope blows every other emotion away with TNT.

“How?” Dean asks, trying to battle it down, not daring to believe-

“Through bloodline magic. It is passing on to your son.”

Hope staggers and keels over dead.

“My-... I don’t have a son!” Dean’s hand is back on the gun’s hilt in its holster, squeezing. “What the fuck are you playing at, you-”

“Oh, but you do, dearie. I am quite certain of it, though may I say, only a witch of my _considerable_ talent would have been able to ferret out the wee darling. He is exquisitely well hidden.”

Ferret out- why is she staring at Dean’s abs?

“Tell me, dearie, how have you been feeling recently?”

“Angry,” Dean snarls.

“Bloated? Nauseous? Experiencing changes in temper?” Rowena leans forward conspiratorially, like they’re old cronies. 

“What?” The last sounds familiar. “The Mark rides me, but I got it under control as long as _assholes_ don’t annoy me!” The gun is heavy in his grip, begs to be used. He had hoped _so hard_ \- but the witch is fucking with him, or is possibly senile.

Actually he’s been doing really well on the anger-management front these past few weeks, even when provoked. It seems to be getting easier and easier to control the Mark, either because he has both Sam and Castiel to think about now, or because it really is fading.

“Nauseous?” Sam asks sharply. Which reminds Dean of his stomach troubles, which had started three months ago (-three months?) and abated only recently. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, Samuel, dear, that can happen when someone is in the family way.”

“The what way?”

 

\---

 

The next half hour is full of shouting, denial, assurances by Rowena, shouting, talk of mystical texts, insults and shouting, a seer spell that casts a lightshow over Dean’s arm and abdomen which could mean anything, and a lot more shouting.

“I can't believe it.” Sam’s gun dangles limply from his fingers, his arm hanging over the back of the chair he collapsed into a few minutes ago.

“I _don't_ believe it,” Dean snarls, fists planted on the table as he towers over the petite woman seated in her chair. “This is _loco!_ I am a _guy!”_

“I know, dear, you have pointed out that fact very loudly at least a dozen times in the past few minutes.” Rowena’s strained manner suggests she’s getting tired of hearing it. “And I tell you that this is irrelevant to the current situation. Magic is very potent. So are demons. And a Knight of Hell… well, they are very powerful indeed and have considerable magic at their disposal. I’d believed them all extinct, to the utmost relief of anyone remotely human, however...” she lets that dangle.

“Fucking crazy,” Dean snarls, spinning away and taking a few angry steps towards the exit. The only reason he doesn’t put three bullets in the witch and stalk out of here is-

-... he doesn’t know why he doesn’t do just that. 

It’s not like he can believe her.

Of course not.

No.

The bar and all its mirrors tip and spin around him. Oh god… this is insane…

“But…for this to happen...” Sam’s crawling through conclusions like a soldier doing the barbwire challenge in an obstacle course. “You’d have had to… er… with a guy. Without, well, protection, and you never-”

Dean flinches so hard he almost loses his footing in the bar-slash-merry-go-round.

Sam takes one look at Dean’s expression - a smooth blend of horrified and embarrassed - and his jaw drops.

“I was a demon!” Dean yelps. “I didn’t have fucking limits! I goofed around, okay?! And maybe- I mean- it wasn’t as if I could catch anything! Hell, did I mention I was a demon?! So sure, I had the, uh, occasional threesome, you know, waitresses and biker chicks and bar bunnies, and there was a- well- there was a- a- with a biker chick there was this-...”

“Guy?” says Sam dazedly. “Who?”

“Does it matter?!”

“Well, yeah, if he’s responsible, he should-” Sam interrupts himself with a strangled noise as the rest of that sentence comes at him like a bullet. He stops talking, steals Rowena’s glass and pours himself a stiff one.

“Though all this is fascinating,” Rowena purs, “and warms my cockles, the fellow you are hinting at had absolutely nothing to do with it. You didn’t need anyone else involved at all, as it were. You were a Knight of Hell, dearie. I repeat: they are very powerful. And traditionally, the birth of a cambion is through immaculate conception-”

Sam sends his whiskey spewing halfway across the table.

“It is meant as a twisted parody of the opposite party, as it were, and though it has been centuries since I read the good book, I do not recall mention of any bikers or bar rabbits in its pages. Such details aside, congratulations, dear boy, you are in the family way and the Mark is transfering to your child.”

Dean thought he’d hit rock bottom, but apparently there’s still miles to dig.

“…Fuck no.”

“I’m afraid that there’s a very emphatic and unavoidable yes coming your way, love. Because a cambion can already protect itself in the womb to some extent. Not that you have one of those. This is a mystical pregnancy, and I would love to open you up and see what’s going on inside- not in the literal sense, Samuel, dear, put away the pistol. I imagine this is not going to be an average pregnancy by any term.”

The bar goes from merry-go-round to rollercoaster, and Dean has to abruptly sit down.

“But it will not be something you can terminate, if you are thinking about it. Any chirurgeon - or witch - coming near you right now with intent to give you that choice would find themselves burned to a crisp, as surely as if every Puritan brickhead in existence simultaneously wished upon a star. The miracle of birth is coming to you whether you will it or not.”

Dean reaches for the whiskey. 

It’s snatched out of his hands.

“For shame, man!” Rowena exclaims. “In your condition?”

“Lady. Give me the bottle.”

“Never.” Rowena sticks her chin out defiantly and twists her body to put herself between Dean and the devil’s drink. “In my day, we didn’t know ‘twere so bad- why, I drank like a fish when I was carrying Fergus and look how he turned out.”

“It wouldn’t matter.” Sam still sounds dazed. “He’s not been able to get drunk for months. It’s… Dean, I think the-... er, the thing. It’s cleaning out your blood.” 

“… So suicide probably won’t work either. Put that look away, Sammy, I was joking.” Mostly.

“But… how is this kid going to be born?” asks Sam.

“I wasn’t joking about the suicide,” Dean croaks, as a few less-than-savoury options for pushing a kid out of a man’s body come to mind.

“No need to fret, my sweet, your nana Rowena is here,” declares the witch, fluttering back over from the bar where she deposited the bottle. Both brothers look back at it longingly. “I doubt you’d have a problem anyway. I suspect once the wee devil is to term, it’ll pop out all by itself-”

“What?!”

“Without harming you, I believe. Hopefully. Well, we shall seek to encourage that, shall we?”

Dean’s palm slams on the table. “Encourage- It’s a cambion! With the Mark of Cain! It’s going to be a monster!”

_”It’s going to be your child!”_

Rowena stares straight at him and every one of her masks and manipulations has dropped for the first time he’s known her. She’s looking at him raw and hard, and it’s suddenly obvious how old and powerful she is, and also how alone that makes her.

“He is going to be your child,” she repeats slowly. “How you behave next is what will determine if he will be a monster. “

Dean stares at her wordlessly. 

A thick knotted silence settles over the bar, only disturbed by the tinkly generic piano music that’ll be responsible for Dean shooting out a speaker once he can get his muscles to unclench.

Rowena stirs. She’s reassembled her mask, though it’s somewhat in tatters. She eyes him keenly. 

“I do wonder one thing… do you remember conceiving? I presume not, since you believe some bike person was involved.”

Dean makes a gurgling sound for only response. He’s a dude. Dudes do not abide the word ‘conceiving’’ when talking about themselves in this or any other context.

“Do you remember being happy with the Mark, Dean?” Rowena probes.

Dean rubs his face harshly. “No, I hated the fucking thing. Even when I was a demon, I hated not having control over my own impulses.” He’d wanted to murder and abuse people under his own steam, not because of some fucking brand on his arm, thank you very much. 

“I think your demon side found a solution to that problem. An amoral solution that harms an innocent life, but that is demons for you. There is one thing, however, you should keep in mind. A cambion is a powerful creature. More powerful than its progenitor, similar to nephilim in that respect. So I think you may have conceived the wee bairn to get rid of the Mark… but your child accepted it.”

“What…?”

“You’re his parent. It is… a powerful bond.” Rowena looks away, stares blankly at the purple neon lights above the bar. “It shapes us and it breaks us… but love it or hate it, you can never be fully rid of it. Trust me, I, for one, have tried.” 

Dean’s mouth goes dry. The immediate reaction of ‘aaaaahgetitout!’ and the horror around the birth of this creature abruptly give way to ‘yeah, and then there’s the next few decades to worry about.’ The sheer huge _reality_ of the situation is working him over with brass knuckles.

Then Rowena flashes the cat-and-cream smile again, gathers up her carpet bag, hands him a burgundy card with a name and phone number printed in gold upon it, pats him on the shoulder and says: “I’ll let you think matters over for awhile. Call me when you need me.”

With an extravagant wave goodbye, she undulates her way towards the door, but stops before she’s halfway there. “You will most likely be safe while you are carrying the wee one, and he will be safe as well. However, once he is born, you will need to be very careful. This is a power that will change the face of Heaven and Hell, and Earth as well. Every demon - and every angel - will be out to either control or kill the wee darling if they ever get a hint of his existence, so do keep that in mind before you go running to, say, my son for advice. You are much better off trusting me.” With that, she flounces out. 

Her words were meant to caution them against getting help from Crowley; she’s undoubtedly laying her own plans there. 

But it’s not Crowley Dean and Sam are thinking of as they stare at each other in dawning shock and concern.

 

\---

 

Dazed patrons start trickling back into the bar a few minutes after Rowena leaves, so Sam and Dean relocate to a less pretentious locale, a dive on the outskirts of Reno. Country music, loud voices and the clack-clack from a pool table nearby encase their corner booth in a sort of privacy. 

Dean’s on his fourth whiskey. He doesn’t care if it doesn’t do anything.

They talk. A bit. Circling the subject like it’s a werewolf they’re trying to catch with a butterfly net. Dean dazedly wonders at what point they went from shouting ‘Crazy bitch!’ at Rowena, to believing her. But too many things line up, and her explanation is just too insane to be a trick, in a way. No, no point clinging to delusions: Dean’s gut is telling him this insane nightmare is all too real. 

He can’t remember-... doing it. Making that decision, much less taking steps to implement it. But then again, when he thinks back on his Knight of Hell days, the whole experience is like a movie rolling through a projector after someone sharpied half the frames. He can remember it, yes, but there’s chunks missing, they fade to black in his mind and he only remembers flashes and context… he breaks some bones, he laughs in Crowley’s face, he hates the Mark. He drinks and sings, he fights and kills, he fucks, he washes his face in a motel bathroom and stares at black eyes in the mirror, and then he does it all over again. He’s gonna keep on doing it until this problem goes-...

Until this problem goes away and he’s free...

“There was Jesse. Jesse Turner. He was a cambion.” Sam’s sitting opposite, arms crossed over his chest, staring down at his drink. It’s been there for twenty minutes. He’s not yet taken a sip.

There’s a whole argument and counterargument in his words. Dean finds himself nodding as if his brother had vocalized them.

“Yeah. Yeah. If it was just the cambion thing, well, that’d be… we’d deal.” Jesse had been an okay kid, cambion or not. He’d had the power to destroy the world but decided not to, which had to earn him some boy scout badge or other.

“But the Mark…” 

Dean shoots back his whiskey in silent agreement.

Sam stirs, pulls himself up from his slouch. “There is one advantage to this. Time. Right? This gives us time to figure out the Mark, a lot more time than you had. It’s going to be a baby. It’s not like it will be very dangerous for quite awhile. Jesse only started warping the fabric of reality on a large scale when he reached double digits and Lucifer was walking around. This gives us time, Dean.”

“...I guess. But…”

“But?”

“But how the hell could I wish this on a _kid_ , man?” Dean lets his head sink into his hands. “…I’m really worth shit…”

“No, Dean, it was the demon’s decision. Not yours.”

An uncomfortable silence settles over their table, highlighted by the dong-dong-dong of some slot machine nearby.

“Come on,” Sam says, reaching over with his freakishly long arm to grip Dean’s shoulder.  
“We’ll figure this out.” 

“Will we?”

“Yeah.”

“And what about Cas?”

Dean takes his hands away from his face. Sam’s staring at him like he knows what Dean’s about to say and can’t bear it.

“Cas… Cas wouldn’t-... “

“What? Try to shiv the kid? That’s what he did with Jesse.”

“But-”

“Hell, a large part of me thinks we should be helping him.” 

“What?! Dean!”

“Sam,” Dean parrots with cold irony. “You know damn well it was a real close thing with Jesse. I’m sure your big beautiful heart was happy with the outcome in the end, but I wondered for years after if we’d made the right call or if we merely lucked out. As for this hellbeast? It’s gonna have the Mark. Tips the scale towards the evil side, don’t you think?”

“We don’t know that,” Sam says mulishly, “but we do know the Mark makes it unkillable, so that’s not even on the table.”

“It makes it unkillable by anyone not armed with the Mark and the First Blade.”

Sam’s eyes go slowly wide and horrified as they fix on Dean.

“Which we don’t have unless we’re willing to deal Crowley into this game of Hell Poker, and that won’t happen. But there’s a chance - a small chance that the critter will be vulnerable right from the start, when it’s brand new. You and I, we won’t take that chance, we’ll try to get rid of the Mark instead. Cas, though? I think he’ll take his shot. Even if he knows there’s a good chance either the Mark or the creature itself might obliterate him. Cas will call it an acceptable risk. I don’t.”

The noises from the bar highlight the heavy awful silence that’s almost solid between them until Dean breaks it with the only conclusion he can live with, the only one that makes sense.

“So we can’t tell him.”

Sam stares at him like he’s gone insane. “Not tell your- er, the guy you’re-... involved with-... I think he’s going to notice, Dean.”

“He’s not noticed yet, has he.” Surprising, maybe, but according to Rowena, a cambion’s camouflage is second to none. And though Cas had his hands all over Dean as recently as three days ago, he’s not actually had to heal him or do anything mystical at him since before Dean went demony. That was before all this shit happened.

“Uh, Dean, you’re going to change. I mean physically.” Sam gives Dean’s stomach a significant look. Then he shakes himself. “Why not tell him? He’s not the same angel he was back when we met Jesse, Cas would help us this time around.” He meets Dean’s hard stare, licks his lips. “I...I think.”

“Yeah? Why the hell would he? This live nuke’s a direct danger to his kind, and it’s going to paint a bullseye on our backs for both heaven and hell as long as it’s alive.”

“How would they find out? The cambion can hide itself-”

“Because Cas’s duty would be to report it to the host.”

“Shit. He wouldn't. Would he?” Sam looks alarmed. They both remember how the angels was going to execute Dean for Tessa’s murder, fuck presumption of innocence, evidence, due process or even his Miranda. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out how they’ll react to the news that the antichrist is a bun in Dean’s oven (- and fucking hell, why did that image have to come to mind? He’s been trying so hard to repress that particular factlet, he’d half fooled himself that the cambion in question will be delivered by express post at some point in the future.)

“Dean, Cas would keep it secret if we ask him to,” Sam says firmly. A little too firmly, like he’s trying to convince himself, and well he might. Cas loves Dean, he loves Sam too, but his loyalties are tangled things and he occasionally thinks and reacts like an angel and does what he thinks best in the circumstances, without using a human frame of reference. It makes it hard to anticipate how he’ll react in extreme cases, even now. 

Except where the brothers’ safety is concerned, which is why Dean can say with assurance: “You’re right, he won’t drop heaven a dime. He’ll know the consequences even better than we do. But when the truth comes out - because fuck my life, it will - what will the host do then? Sounds like Cas is on shaky ground with them as it is, after taking our side so often. Think they’ll like him hiding something like this? He’ll be the next rogue on their list to hunt down.”

Sam looks troubled. 

And there’s the other reason why Dean doesn’t want to tell Cas. Shame. Raw, cruel and deep. For starters, his condition is kind of proof positive he fucked around, a _lot_ , when he was a demon (he doesn’t buy immaculate conception for any price, stupid sarcastic witches notwithstanding). And even though they weren’t together back then, he still feels ashamed at shoving it in Cas’s face. But that’s nothing to what his demon self did. Gotten rid of his curse by dumping it on an innocent kid - or innocent antichrist or whatever.

Dean remembers how he felt after he’d been broken down in hell, started torturing souls under Alastair's tutelage. How he couldn’t see a single solitary way he was worthy of being saved by Castiel. That feeling of shame, of being a weak, breakable human who’s fucked up time and again, clings to him. The Hell Knight thing? Part of Dean believes he actually deserved that, for getting conned into the Mark by Crowley, for not finding a better way to heal Sam and take out Abaddon, for getting Kevin killed. On a bad day, of which there are still many, he can’t see how he possibly deserves his angel at the best of times, but with this clusterfuck? Thinking of revealing it to Cas makes him want to die… He reaches for the booze instead, wishing his old coping mechanism was still functional.

\- his fingers spasms around the bottle so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t shatter. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Another, even better reason to keep Cas out of the loop has just made itself known.

“We don’t tell him, Sam. I mean it.”

At the tense, stern tone in Dean’s voice, Sam glances up from where he’s fiddling with his glass.

“This creature is going to be a danger to everyone around it, starting with us, and Cas knows it. He’ll take a shot at it as soon as he can. But this time, he’ll be lucky if he just gets turned into a fucking toy.”

“Do you think this cambion will have the power to do that from day one?” 

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Dean’s voice is flat and preternaturally calm as he holds up the empty bottle. 

From the way Sam gapes at it, he remembers it was three quarters full of cheap rye a scant minute ago. 

“Shit, Dean, I- I forgot it could already do that. But- but cambions are only at full power when Lucifer is topside. How is-”

“I think this one marches to the beat of a different drum.” The bottle hits the table with a sickeningly loud clunk. A few people glance their way and then return to their pursuits. 

Maybe the cambion won’t have the power to take out an angel from day one, _maybe_ , but Cas isn’t at full power either without his wings, and Dean, for one, doesn’t want to bet his lover’s life on the outcome of that cage match. 

“Maybe you should stop drinking,” Sam croaks. He’s gaping at Dean’s abs (ugh!) as if Deans’ belt buckle just turned into Satan’s left cojones.

“Don’t have no choice,” Dean growls, making an irritated gesture at the bottle. What would happen if he goes to the bar for a new one? Good god, every bottle in the joint could blow up, or turn to water like some fucking upside down miracle, and they have to be careful now. Very careful. A lot of bad attention is heading their way at mach three velocity. 

\---

Next chapter: Monkey in the middle

In which Dean’s life sucks again, right on schedule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for all kinds of things, such as knowingly drinking while pregnant (albeit also knowing there's no consequences due to magic), a very negative reaction to pregnancy, mentions of abortion and infanticide. And to top it off, inappropriate moments of very dark humor throughout. 
> 
> Dean's taking this just about as well as Rosemary does in the eponymous movie, and for much the same reason, but his attitude will change eventually...


	5. Monkey in the Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean’s life sucks again, right on schedule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As suggested in the tags, this was not a WAFFy mpreg! When confronted with something that shatters his world, Dean reaches for either anger or denial, and in this instance it’s a mixture of both. However, this will change at some point in the future.

**Seventeen months ago, and 76 hours after Dean had his world razed.**

The loud _clack_ of the motel room door swinging shut heralds the delighted “Hey!!” that greets Sam in the next room, followed by a murmur of voices.

Dean scrubs the cheap hotel soap out of his hair, chases the water off his face. Then, eyes still closed, he leans forward until the jet beats against his nape, locked arms propping him up against the cheap tiles, head hung low. The water, getting cooler, numbs his skin. Dean keeps his eyes closed, gathering up the pig-headed can’t-quit-for-shit attitude that drove him to suckerpunch the devil and tell Michael to go fuck himself…

Almost against his volition, his eyes crack open. He looks down, past his chest and above the spot where his junk hangs, forlorn and unimpressed with recent developments.

_A flash. Cas, all serious-looking even while naked and on his knees, glancing up from what he’s doing. “Is this correct?” Dean’s garbled words of approval bring a smile to shimmer and break that assiduous look of angelic concentration-_

A trickle of water stings his eyes, banishes the vision, the memory. Dean scrubs the water away fiercely and stares down at his abdomen. 

Dean is built. His body is another weapon in his arsenal, one he relies on just as much as his colt or his machete. He knows it, and he can tell something’s off. His six pack has gotten softer. From this angle, there’s a minute but definite bulge in the lower part. Abnormal. Alien. It screams at him, ‘wrong, wrong, wrong!’ 

How much bigger will it get? Why is it even fucking visible in the first place? According to Rowena, Dean has not suddenly grown lady parts. He doesn’t have a whatchamacallit, baby-machine bits. The whole thing is a trick, mystical hocus pocus, the cambion building out of magic what it needs to leech off Dean’s bod. If it can do that, it should be able to do it anywhere in his body - or better yet, in another dimension altogether, somewhere it won’t be visible or impede his life. But no, even though it could surely grow, say, in the trunk of the impala, it’s lodged itself instead in Dean’s lower abdomen. According to Rowena, chances are good that this won’t actually kill him, only make him wish he was dead… Fuck… Is he actually going to look like bloody Schwarzenegger in that stupid flick the guy made and surely regretted since, where the dude got-... 

Dean fights down a wave of revulsed panic by beating it over the head with icy pragmatism. Because seriously, if ending up looking like a pregnant dame is the worst outcome of this fucking insanity, then the Winchesters will have gotten off lightly. Changes to Dean’s physique are the least serious issue they’re gonna face over the next few months. This is no time to lose his shit.

Fists tighten against the tile. Dean gives the tiny bulge in his torso an unimpressed ‘come at me then’ look, stops the water with one hard twist that makes the faucet squeak against its thread, and reaches for the towel.

Charlie is sitting on Sam’s bed. From the way her jaw’s hanging around her breastbone, Dean’s brother has done him a solid and explained matters so Dean doesn’t have to.

“Hey, Charlie. How was…” Dean fishes around for the name of the country Charlie was last rummaging in, and then settles on, “Europe?”

Charlie is staring at his midsection, currently covered with a Zep t-shirt Dean pulled on at random. It’s the classic Hindenburg-going-down-in-flames one. Of course it is.

“Huh?” she says after ten seconds.

“Yeah, that’s what I said when we had to fly to Scotland that one time. Give me good ol’ US of A any day of the week. Sam told you about the hickjacker, I take it.”

“...Huh?”

“No worries, take your time.” Dean settles in the chair near the desk, It creaks alarmingly. It probably would have done that anyway, Dean tells himself savagely, it’s not like he’s actually put on any large amount of weight. He has to focus on cambions and curses and the more serious aspect of this shit-fest, he doesn’t have time to develop a Cronenberg-esque body-horror phobia. 

“So, what’s the plan?” Sam asks, rubbing his face. He hasn’t slept much more than Dean in the past three days.

Dean sighs and draws a burgundy colored card from his back pocket.

“Rowena?!” His little brother makes a terrifying face. “That’s insane! That’s putting out a fire with gasoline, man. She’s got her own agenda, that much is obvious. And- and I mean, she’s a _witch!_ And Crowley’s mom! If Cas can’t help- if we have to actually work at keeping him - your _lover_ \- in the dark, how the hell do you see any of this working?”

“Huh?!” says Charlie, twisting her head around sharply at the bloody L word the big moose accidentally dropped into the conversation. Not that they can afford to keep any card in the hole at this point. 

“You think we have any other choice?” Dean snaps. “I’m not stupid enough to trust her, okay? That’s why I called Charlie back. She can help you keep an eye on Rowena. Charlie, you’ve been boning up on magic and texts and stuff, looking for ways to help me. Well, now we put that to use. I’ll deal with Cas. I know this solution is fucked, but we’re out of options. It was bad enough when it was just me going hellwards, but now? We got to deal with this, and if we have to dance with the devil - or with the devil’s mom - then that’s what we gotta do. Where did I put my phone…”

 

\---

**Seventeen months ago, a week after Castiel landed in Ecuador.**

“Do you trust her?” Castiel can’t help but ask.

“Charlie?” Dean’s voice is faint on the phone; reception isn’t very good in the jungle hours away from the town of Ibarra, even using the large chunky phone Sam had bought and programmed for him expressly for this trip away from regular coverage. “Of course- oh, you meant Rowena. Hell no.”

“But you’re letting her attempt spells on you.” Castiel tries to sound reasonable, but he suspects it comes out plaintive. Why do the Winchesters always opt for the most desperate solutions…?

“Don’t have no choice, dude, gotta get this shit thing off. Don’t worry, Sam’s watching her like a hawk, and Charlie’s double checking anything she does.”

That does not reassure the seraph. He looks around as if he might miraculously find himself within range of an international airport instead of deep in a mountainous forest. The only functional means of transportation he can see is the beaten-down Lada some garagist in Ibarra had been very pleased to sell him. “Could you wait until I get back? You have Rowena captive now, so surely-”

“No can do, buddy,” Dean says quickly. “You know we’re on a clock here. And you need to focus on your own shit, right?”

Castiel’s own affairs are no way near as important. Sure, the three angels he’s pursuing are dangerous and trying to form a small army of humans from these regions, but… Fine, this is also important, as is obeying Heaven’s orders, but the idea of Dean and Sam facing that witch alone is not appealing.

“Hey! Cas!” 

Castiel blinks. He suspects Dean’s been trying to get his attention a few times already. “Yes?”

“Keep your head in the game. We’re quite capable of handling Crowley’s bloody mom, especially since he kicked her out. He says she’s the best when it comes to cursing, so she should be able to undo one too. Your job is to stop those celestial cowboys down there without getting yourself killed, okay, soldier?”

“Okay,” Castiel echoes, head drooping a little. “Be careful.”

“I’m not the one tossing a jungle upside down looking for drug-running angels.”

“I think they are on a crusade against drug-runners.”

“... Oh. Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Their intentions may be considered good, their methods are not,” says Castiel, glancing at the bullet-ridden jeep spilled in a nearby ditch. He’d been examining it when Dean’s call came through. The vehicle is near the tree to which three men and one woman have been tied, cuts running up and down their bodies and eyes burned out. One of them was no older than sixteen. 

“You know best. Gotta go, we got more work to do here. I’ll call you when we have something more to say. Watch your back.”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Right.” Over the staticky line, Dean clears his throat and mutters quickly, “- miss you and all, okay? Be safe,” before hanging up.

“I miss you too,” Castiel tells the now silent phone. “Please be careful.”

Dean tried to be reassuring, but in truth he sounded harassed, worried and depressed. Castiel has the oddest urge to grab his blade and stab something. But since there are only trees around, and none of them have done him anything, he laboriously reassembles his angelic patience and goes hunting once more.

\---

**Over sixteen months ago, three weeks after the baby bombshell exploded in Dean’s face.**

Seriously, fuck his life…

Dean’s sitting in dust and detritus, trying to get a warding sigil’s squiggle just right, while Charlie and Rowena are going at it hammer and tongs in the background as if the cursed and pregnant dude they’re arguing about isn’t even there. It’s the kind of moment that makes him question every life choice that led him to this place and time…

“And I tell you, young miss, that this is extremely unadvisable,” Rowena declares archly.

“Funny, that’s what you say whenever I bring up something that can verify the stuff you spout.” Charlie had started out nervous and cowed around Rowena, but some strange alchemy occurred once she really took onboard Dean’s condition. Charlie is now in full tiger-sister mode and giving Rowena a run for her money in the dangerous-woman department.

“My _dear_ ,” says Rowena. The endearment sounds like the chambering of a cartridge. “If you would simply simmer down-”

“ _You_ simmer down! You- you-”

“-then I can show you the relevant passage in this grimoire that-”

“I don’t need a relevant anything! I need to go steal an ultrasound machine from the nearest hospital and see this kid myself! According to the internet-”

“Pah! Your precious internet!”

“-it’s required at this point anyway, and we need to know where it’s growing-”

“As if your clunky machinism can interpret this level of arcane mystery-”

“- and if everything is okay with Dean’s spleen and stuff-”

“-your reliance on those little boxes-”

“Have they been going at it like that since I left?” Sam asks, dropping into a crouch near Dean. “That’s not right, by the way, that line has to bisect here at a forty five degree angle.”

“Fuck it all,” Dean grumbles, dropping his paintbrush into the pail half full of lamb’s blood, holy oil and paprika (or some other spice/herb/kitchen-crap). “And yes, Sam, they’ve been going at it all this time.”

He reaches up and snags the family-sized bag of chips peeking invitingly from the top of one of Sam’s grocery bags. Come to papa. He’s always fucking hungry these days. 

A double-barrelled “Dean!” erupts from the far side of the room.

“Blood pressure! None of that salty GM crap!” Charlie gasps, while Rowena’s voice grates higher than usual with, “Someone should be ingesting more greens if he doesn’t want to end up looking like a barrel shortly.”

Oh great, so they _can_ agree on something.

“Back off,” Dean growls over his shoulder, ripping open the package. “And I don’t look like a barrel.”

As a matter of fact, at four months and change - near the halfway mark as it were - he still doesn’t look all that different, though he’s had to loosen his belt by three notches since this sleighride began. His six pack has lost some of its definition, the small bulge is still there, but it’s invisible under his usual layers. (So says Reason. Panic swears it’s visible from outer space, but Dean tries not to listen too much.)

Charlie surfed the internet and said that not showing more at this stage was ‘odd’.

Dean had to remind her that the entire situation is made of ‘obscene, disturbing and insane’, with ‘horrifying’ the cherry on top, and ‘odd’ barely qualifies as the chocolate sprinkles. But Charlie still taught herself online how to use an ultrasound machine and interpret its results, and is now raring to go steal one.

“Charlie, you know I love you and I listen to you religiously,” says Dean around a mouthful of chips.

“I don’t see why!” Rowena clucks. “This _young madam_ is completely ignorant of any kind of arcane matter.”

“Yeah,” Charlie puts in, “but in my Pro column, I’ve got ‘is not an evil witch’-”

“But in this instance, I think Rowena is right.”

Charlie gives Dean a scandalized look. Rowena gloats. At least they’ve forgotten about the chips.

“Charlie, he’s okay so far,” Sam points out, straightening up and heading towards the cooler. They’re hiding out in the utility room of an abandoned can-making factory not far from Pontiac, which Charlie somehow managed to rewire for electricity (she reactivated the utilities and charged the bill to the Pentagon, she informed them). It’s only temporary. They move every four days, more if anything odd came sniffing around. The kind of magic Rowena regularly cooks up to test theories on the Mark can bring with it a lot of potential attention. 

“He’s okay _so far?_ Is that really good enough?” Charlie asks, distressed.

“I don’t think we could do anything even if there is a problem,” Sam reminds her, sounding stressed and depressed in equal measure. “And poking and prodding a cambion is maybe not advisable.”

“But what if-”

“The wee lamb is nice and comfortable, dear, and it is not in his interest to cause harm to his parent,” Rowena informs her archly. “I doubt your machine would be able to see anything, anyway, this is-”

“If you say ‘mystical pregnancy’ one more time, I am going to go Leroy Jenkins on you.”

“...I am not sure what that means, child, but as it may be, the cambion knows how to hide. There are worse things than a nosy little girl with no respect for her elders looking for it as we speak.”

Right. On that cheery note, Dean picks up his brush and goes back to work on the sigil.

He feels bad taking Rowena’s side against Charlie, but Sam’s right: the demonspawn that can blow up bottles isn’t about to put Dean in harm’s way, and even if it does, there’s little they can do about it. And it’s not like Dean is in any hurry to see pictures of the little chestburster. Or come face to face with the child he’s doomed to live with the Mark, either. It’s hard to decide which of those two feelings takes precedence. Dean doesn’t care to examine his motivations too closely; introspection is a closed book to him, one he tends to use for target practice. The bump in his midriff is unobtrusive, the morning sickness has stopped, the feeling of oppression and doom and tension in his gut are just business as usual for Winchesters… At this point, Dean is quite content dwelling in denial, believing the new antichrist is being constructed somewhere in another dimension, or Hell, or Taiwan, and will be delivered without particular fuss, muss or trauma in a few months, possibly by stork. 

“Now that that is sorted,” Rowena says smarmily, taking advantage of Dean’s crouching position to loom over him with gusto, “let us continue.”

Dean scowls and gestures at the sigil. “I need to finish this.”

“No, dear, _I_ need to finish _this_ ,” he is archly informed, as Rowena directs her red-lacquered nails at the Mark.

“Go, Dean, I’ll take over.” Sam hunkers down next to the wall and picks up the pail of blood and the brush.

Dean is a millisecond away from arguing out of principle, or just exploding outright. On the one hand, yes, he knows his circumstances are both bizarre and dire, but on the other hand he hates all this bloody _fussing_ over him. It riles him that his problems have once more taken front and center, and everyone else is running around him trying to compensate for his screw up.

“Ooh, there’s a sour puss. You know, dear, a positive attitude can accomplish wonders,” Rowena informs him tartly.

The diatribe that follows is neither positive nor a wonder, but it does allow Dean to vent some of his frustration.

Nevertheless, ten minutes later he’s sitting in a chair with his right arm strapped down to the rickety picnic table that follows them around in the second-hand van Charlie bought back in Reno. The cracked formica is painted with all kinds of eye-sodomizing squiggles and lines, so are the wide leather straps pinning his arm to the surface, bending the limb up uncomfortably so that the belly of the beast is exposed. Dean’s bare to the waist, regardless of the old factory’s damp and disused cold. In theory this allows Rowena to paint sigils on his torso, but in his darker moments (of which there are many) Dean suspects she likes him half naked and in bondage. 

...Well, to be honest, the straps are necessary. The kind of magic Rowena practices on him and the Mark is often painful, and an involuntary twitch would not be good.

Dean grits his teeth as molten pain lances up and down his right arm, until every bone from wrist to shoulder aches with it. Around the edges of the table, protective runes designed to cushion the blowback from the Mark crackle and smoke, making Dean’s eyes water. 

“Hmmm.” Rowena stares into a crystal bowl. She’s filled it with water and small bones (once again, Dean fools himself into believing it’s the bones of birds or some small rodent. Witches, man…) 

She gestures over the red candle, burning, sputtering and dripping big fat globs of pungent wax onto the cat’s skull it’s using as a holder. The candle flame goes out and the pain abates.

Dean takes in a discreet breath, aiming to keep his voice steady when he speaks.

“You done?” he asks shortly.

“For now,” Rowena answers without looking up from the grimoire she’s consulting intently. “But you might as well keep like this. I will require your arm again in a short while.”

Dean swallows a few choice comments and looks back longingly at the bag of chips he forgot next to Sam. The bag fails to materialize within reach. The hellbeast only arranges for miracles when it suits him, not when his unwitting assembly factory needs a bit of comfort food.

“You still trying to just map out the thing?” he asks grumpily. 

“Yes. It is by far the most complex curse I have ever encountered.” Rowena’s tone is low and conspiratorial. She glances at his arm and turns a page. “Its roots run deep and old, unbelievably so. It is also linked together like a chain; from the wee bairn to you, and from you to… to someone else, presumably this Cain fellow you told me about. This act of sharing, of moving the magic from one person to another… it is not how a curse ordinarily works, it makes it hard to find a place to start picking at the tangle.”

Dean examines her profile in surprise. Normally Rowena doesn’t share that much voluntarily. Taking her side against Charlie may have induced the old hag to open up a bit. Wonderful. Now if only she had good news to share, rather than ‘it’s complicated’. He also wishes she would stop mentioning Cain. The notion that the father of murder is walking around intrigues the witch, and she’s insinuated before that she might need to meet him in order to figure out the ‘mystical motion’ of the curse. Dean can’t tell if that’s true, or if she’s got some ulterior motive (possibly related to Crowley getting knifed), or if she’s just fangirling, but since Cain disappeared for all intents and purposes, they’ll have to do without the bearded bastard. That’s got Dean’s ballot. Shit is bad enough without getting Cain involved. Who knows how he’d react to what’s happening here?

“Antonia Covarrubias… cantrip de los condenados… Yes, that might make sense of it if this is _that_ kind of curse… In that case... you, young lady.”

“Charlie,” says Charlie in a grumbly sort of way without looking up from her screen. Her laptop is chewing over complex squiggles, trying to figure them out without a PhD in Witchery.

“Isn’t that what I said? Do make yourself useful, dear, and get me my black bag. And try to find some copper in this ironworks. Dean, you need to stay very still. Now, let me see if I remember the cantrip correctly, t’would be unfortunate to turn your arm into ash at this juncture.”

Right. Stay still. Dean puts on his poker face, braces himself discreetly and gets ready for the next dose of shit coming his way.

“That’s right, dear.” Normally Rowena is completely indifferent to his suffering, but he’s still in her good books, it seems. “Lord, at least you are not a bellyacher like Fergus was when I had to cure his childhood bout of the pox.”

“Great. I’m tougher than Crowley. That’s like saying I’m nicer than Lucifer. That bar ain’t high, lady.”

On his arm, the Mark seems to writhe, like it’s eager to get off his skin, dissolve into his bloodstream, blacken his veins on the way to the cambion somewhere inside him. Fuck. There are times at night he wakes up clawing at the thing, trying to tear it away before it can damn them both.

...He wishes Cas was here. All calm and kind, saying ‘I will save you from this’ in that deep gravelly voice. Dean buries that thought along with all his other concerns and causes for suicidal tendencies. Cas is closing in on those Equatorial-whatever angels, and doesn’t need Dean calling him up once again for a morale boost, not when the human can’t even say what he needs a boost for…

\---

 

**Sixteen months ago, at pretty much the same time, Castiel is having a not-so-good day.**

”Kill him! _Now!_ ” screams Anadiel. Right into Castiel’s left ear.

Castiel has taken several blows to the head. Maybe that’s why the only muzzy thought going through his mind right now is, ‘Elliah is trying, you idiot, but she has to pick up her blade first. Yelling at her won’t make her move any faster.’

\- He’s the one who wrenched the blade out of her hand. To avoid getting stabbed. 

The blade floats, silver in the sunlight. In slow motion right towards his chest. Anadiel is grappling him from behind, locking both Castiel’s arms behind his back and battling his half-stunned attempts to free himself. This is it.

A feeling rams into Castiel’s chest a second before the blade can. It opens him up, spills him out.

With a frenzied wrench, Castiel pulls forward enough to shift his balance and swing Anadiel into the path of the oncoming weapon. Elliah gasps and jerks it back. Castiel punches her, picks her blade out of mid-air as she staggers, finishes off a wounded Anadiel before she can recover. She surges up- the blade slams into her chest, pinning her mid-motion.

Castiel slides the weapon out of her body, ignoring the flash of light dimming the raw jungle sunshine with its momentary agonizing brilliance. Still holding Elliah’s blade, he turns towards Zorah. The last angel has been mostly silent up until now, and hasn’t really participated in the fight.

Zorah stares at Castiel with eyes that are already hollow and burned out. Whatever cause Elliah and Anadiel were crusading for, here is an angel who has found no solace in Heaven or on earth. He attacks with barely a pause, still without a word, greedily reaching towards oblivion. Castiel grants it.

Then all in the camp of camouflaged tents is silent once more. The jungle creatures all around have been frightened by the struggle and the light bursts of dying angels. The humans ran off once they realized their machine guns could do little more than puncture Castiel’s trenchcoat.

Castiel sways in the sunshine and sends Grace flowing through his body to knit it together where his brothers have injured him.

Dean.

It comes to him in a rush as his head clears. That was the feeling that stabbed him in the heart a second before Elliah could do the honors. If he died, he’d lose Dean. Dean’s shining soul, his crooked grin, the warmth in his eyes, the way he rubs his nose, the skin-to-skin contact of their bodies when they twine together, the way Dean snores, relaxed and easy next to the angel guarding his sleep. 

Plus, if he went and died in Ecuador, Dean would be furious with him, and would probably do something stupid and dangerous to bring him back. That had tipped the scales, made his life worth saving at the cost of three of his kin. 

Castiel breathes out, the exhale wobbly and a little worn through. He rubs his face, then goes to pick up his own blade from where it fell earlier. He detours around the ashen smear of an outflung wing burned into the beaten dirt of the jungle camp. 

What’s done is done, as is the Host’s will. Now he can go home. He needs to hold Dean in his arms so he can truly feel alive again. He can’t wait.

 

\---

Next chapter: Sleepless in God-knows-where

In which Castiel doesn’t get what he wants, Dean drinks too much coffee and they talk about monkeys


	6. Sleepless in God-knows-where

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel doesn’t get what he wants, Dean drinks too much coffee and they talk about monkeys

**A little under sixteen months ago, and Castiel’s dislike of airplanes hasn’t abated.**

A man in a green onesie uniform with an Air Park Security badge on his chest walks up to Castiel as the latter emerges from the stairwell. The man is wielding a clipboard and a harassed look.

“Excuse me, sir, are you parked on this level?” 

The angel nods once. He has spent the last nineteen hours in planes or airports, and the last five minutes trudging through the long-term parking lot, he has little patience to talk with mortals. Especially uniformed ones. They tend to be tedious. 

“How long has your car been parked here?”

Too long. “Twenty two days.”

The man draws himself up and starts talking in a rehearsed way that suggests he’s said these words many times before. “I’m sorry to say, sir, that due to a failure in our camera system, a great many cars on this level were broken into or stolen in an incident a week ago. If you don’t mind, sir, I will go with you to see if your vehicle is still there, and in what state. Please note that Air Park Ltd is not responsible for items left inside the vehicle, however due to the nature of the incident, if your car has been stolen or damaged-”

It takes two minutes and many words, including Liability, Lease vs Bailment, and Coupon, for Castiel to realize that the long-winded man in the green uniform has nothing very relevant to say. He cuts the mortal off in the middle of the word Insurance by turning and walking away. The Air Park official trails after him with the slow trudging footstep of one carrying a large bag of manure he’s had to cart around all week. 

Castiel’s car is in an area guarded by a flimsy fortress of red cones. There’s only four cars left, three of them with broken windows.

“Oh, is _that_ your car?” the official asks, surprise and relief lightening his voice.

“Yes.”

His car is where he left it and is the one that has not been stolen or suffered damage. The only thing that’s changed about it are the words “Shit no!” scrawled in the faint dust on the back window.

“My car is intact.”

“Um, yes, well, good-”

Castiel gets in, cutting the man short, and drives away. He pulls onto the airport’s exit road and drives for ten minutes before his phone (whose battery died at some point in the past hundred hours) finally signals that it is ready to talk to him again. Fortunately Sam showed him how to hook it up to the car to charge it.

“Cas? Finally!” 

“Dean.” Castiel’s eyes flicker shut for a few seconds, before he has to reopen them to stay on the road. Days of tension, battle, pain and regret trickle out of him. “How are you?”

“Me?! Forget me, are you okay?! Nearly a week of radio silence, I was about to send the cavalry.”

“I’m sorry I worried you. The car I bought in Ibarra did not allow me to charge my phone.”

“Damn it, hotels have phones too, you know. Not that you need a hotel-... never mind, as long as you’re safe.”

“I am. I’ve finished my mission. I’m back.”

“Oh. Them angels…?” 

There’s a short silence which Castiel does not know how to fill. Then Dean asks: “You okay?” The two words are short, gruff, but do not hide the concern behind them. 

“Yes, I’m uninjured.”

“Not what I meant.”

Castiel frowns in self-recrimination. He tries hard to keep his own feelings in check when talking to Dean. The Mark is the biggest problem here. Angels cannot have nightmares, but if they did, Castiel knows his own would feature the Knight of Hell he’d stopped down in the bunker, a second away from slaughtering Sam. A blackened twisted remnant of the man Castiel loves, a parody stinking of blood and sin with nothing left to save. That will _not happen again_ , and he refuses to distract Dean from focusing on the Mark with his own wariness and despondency at what he’s being tasked to do while hunting down these rogues.

“I am perfectly fine.” Or if not now, he will be soon, once he’s back where he belongs. “I will be home in three hours.” 

“Oh. Uh, good. I’m not at the bunker, but Sam should be there.”

“I will stop by to say hello, then,” Castiel says gravely. “Where are you? I’ll come join you afterwards.”

There’s a small sound on the line, as if Dean has licked his lips. “Ah, yeah, ‘bout that. We’re still working on the Mark. And Rowena says that at this juncture, it’s important that she not be disturbed.”

Castiel nods, though Dean can’t see the gesture. “I will not disturb her. Maybe I can help.”

“I’ll call you the minute she tells me she needs you,” Dean assures him, “but in the meantime, she has to keep the air around her clear of interference. I mentioned you might come by, and she hit the roof. Apparently having a celestial being walking around is going to throw up all kinds of weird static. She says you can’t come within a mile, just to be safe.”

Castiel stares at the lights of oncoming traffic on the other side of the highway divide. “She said that?”

“Yup. Sorry, Cas, you know I’d like to see you, ‘specially with me stuck here between these two redheads-”

“You don’t think that sounds suspicious?”

“Suspicious? No,” Dean says airily. “Makes sense to me. You know what you do to prophets and psychics and guys like that. Having an angel around- it’d be like building a house of cards with Godzilla camping outside the door. Right?”

“...You don’t think Rowena has ulterior motives in keeping me away?” Castiel asks, speaking carefully. “It sounds like she is trying to isolate you.”

“No, it’s above board... Yeah, real sorry, Cas, but I gotta tell you, this, uh, spell she’s working on, it’s going to take awhile. Four months, maybe more.”

“...I can’t see you for four months?”

“Or more. Sorry, it bites, I know-”

“Are you sure you trust Rowena on this?”

“Yeah, I do.” The three words are firm and hardened at the edges. “Or rather, I don’t trust her for a second, but I believe her when it comes to this.”

“But are you _sure_ -”

“Cas, I’ve been around the block,” Dean says brusquely. “I don’t like this either, but you’ll agree that getting this spell right is more important than a booty call.”

Castiel frowns, fishing through his memory for that term among Metatron’s downloaded information. 

“What does sex have to do with this?” he asks, now completely confused. 

There’s a short silence on the phone, then Dean sighs. “Nothing. I know that’s not what you’re worried about. Look, Cas, I can’t go into it, but I need you to trust me on this.”

“You don’t even have Sam with you,” Castiel says plaintively. 

“Not right now, no, but he was here just a few days ago, and he’ll tell you the same thing.”

Three hours later, Sam indeed tells him the same thing. It boggles Castiel, but he isn’t that familiar with the ins and outs of witchcraft, not enough to say whether Rowena’s explanation is a patented fallacy or not. The Winchesters usually know what they are doing, or at least they are considerably more paranoid than Castiel is. If they both think this has to happen, then he can only accept it.

Once Sam has gone to bed, Castiel sits in the kitchen, recalling the rest of his conversation with his lover. Dean tasked him with keeping an eye out for ‘that slimeball’ Metatron, and providing Sam with backup whenever he can. Both reasonable requests Castiel has no problem acceding to. 

Then there were the last few words. They run through his mind like a melody. Dean’s voice had shed that stern no-nonsense tone, dropped almost to a mutter, with a lot of ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’ and a few words of love. Mostly “So, uh, I miss you, you know. Take care. Don’t do anything I wouldn't. Talk soon? Like, this weekend?’ The poetry in those words don’t rival any of the bards, past or present, but with Dean, Castiel has learned a new language. It is full of meaning beneath each word, love and need hidden in every syllable. The emotions behind that goodbye keep him warm in Dean’s stead. 

 

\---

 

**Over fifteen months ago and Dean’s world just went ka-boom.**

“Dean?! Dean!”

“I’m awake,” Dean says. Or tries to say. It comes out as “Muek”.

_“Dean!”_

Dean thinks of negotiating the words ‘Charlie, stop shouting, I have a headache’, and decides that, in view of what happened to ‘I’m awake’, simply glaring at her will have to be enough to get her to lower the decibels.

But for that, he’d have to have his eyes open. Ah, a complication.

“...th’fuck…”

“Don’t just sit there! Do something!” Charlie hollers, panic in every word.

“He will recover.” That’s Rowena, some way off and sounding subdued. “As will I, not that you care. In the meantime, dear, if you would stop your hullabaloo, we would both feel better.”

Seconded. Even thinking too loud sends drills through Dean’s skull.

He finally hauls up his eyelids and lifts his head. Charlie quickly goes from a crouch to kneeling behind him so she can pillow his aching skull on her knees. “There you go. You okay? How many fingers am I holding up?” The fingers are upside down and waving against the harsh light of a neon overhead, making him wince.

“...what...”

“I don’t know. Rowena was doing some magical mumbo-jumbo-”

Halfway across the room, in a chair in which she apparently collapsed, a white-faced Rowena makes a disgusted sound.

“- and then wham! You both got hurled away like something exploded between you! You hit the wall pretty hard.”

“...m’used to it…”

“...That doesn’t sound healthy, Dean.”

“Yeah….” 

Rowena has a delicate lace hanky pressed to her profusely bleeding nose, her hair is a fright and a rip is running up her dress’ seam. Not having been bounced off a wall, she’s still in better shape than Dean. 

“Rebound?” Dean mutters.

Rowena, head tipped back to staunch the flow, glares at the ceiling. She sniffs, dabs her nose.

“...Defences?”

The witch merely shrugs. Dean figures her head is ringing like a gong in sympathetic resonance with his own.

At the start, when she was merely prodding the curse, mapping it out, Rowena’s magical defences could handle whatever backwash she got off the Mark. But this… this has happened twice now (twice? Yeah, twice, unless the wall knocked a few memories loose along the way.) Now that she’s trying to actually unravel the Mark, the magic that protects Dean is slingshotting her mojo right back at her. Most times, her magical defenses can handle it. She’s a pretty kickass witch, Dean has to grudgingly admit. But the harder she pushes, the harder the Mark pushes right back, and when the levee of warding sigils breaks… 

“Dean, do you feel nauseous? What day is it?”

“It’s the day I end up on my ass again. Fuck if I know more than that. Lost track days ago. S’not yet the weekend, know that much. Help me up, Charlie, I’m fine.”

“Dean-”

“Three.”

“Huh?” 

“The number of fingers you were holding up earlier.” Dean struggles and eventually gets to his feet on his own, ignoring Charlie’s exasperated sigh. Yeah, Dean knows he’s a hard guy to take care of, but that comes with the territory. In the future, once this shit-show is finally over, he’ll get Charlie and Cas together for drinks and commiseration, Dean’s tab.

Once he’s steady on his pins, he and Rowena share a look. It makes him feel a tiny bit better to think that Rowena is starting to hate the Mark almost as much as he does. There’s a strange sense of sharing in that look, like a bridge built out of hardship, an understanding woven out of mutual distrust being put aside to accomplish a goal. 

“You gonna live, Red?” 

Rowena mutters three syllables under her breath. When she takes the hanky away and folds it up, there’s no further gush of blood from her honker.

“Yes, I am indeed going to live.”

“So what happened? Same as last time? It boomeranged at you?” 

“Hmm. I would love to have a _discussion_ with the maker of this curse.” Dean can honestly not tell if she wants to congratulate the guy or crucify him. Right this minute, Rowena herself sounds like she’s on the fence.

“Are you getting somewhere at least?” Dean grounds out.

“Magic of this level is a matter of trial and error,” he is crisply informed. “And you know I need to be careful.”

Yeah. The Mark can dish out as good as it gets and that’s bad enough, but if she accidentally puts the cambion in danger, they’ll have to buy a toy chest to keep her in. 

But that does not make the work any less urgent. “Come on,” Dean says, rubbing a bloody smear he’s found at the back of his noggin onto his pants. “Let’s try again.”

“Can’t. You guys blew up my table,” Charlie says, quick and sharp as a knife darting in, with the skill of one who knows by now that the sane argument - you’re both exhausted and just got blown up! - won’t fly far with a Winchester. 

The cheap card table is indeed quite dented and all its markings have been charred off. There are no signs of the straps that were binding down Dean’s arm, but there’s a thin wisp of smoke floating through the air and twisting the raw light from the overhead neon.

Dean’s eyes flickers shut and he rubs the tepid damp spot at the back of his skull again. “Awesome…”

“Young lady-”

“Charlie,” says Charlie.

“Your name is besides the point. Go and acquire a new table for us,” Rowena says with a queenly gesture towards the metal door out of here. “Make it sturdier this time.”

“You got it, first thing tomorrow,” says Charlie with only the faintest narrowing of her eyes. Dean immediately figures she’s going to go all the way to the other side of the state before finding the right table, in an attempt to give Dean a break. 

“Good. Good.” Rowena makes a good show of getting up from her chair without tottering. “I am going to go, ah, consult my grimoires, to see-”

“I’d consult a pillow if I were you,” Charlie says as she leaves, her tone begrudgingly helpful. 

“I am not tired. I merely need to retire to my room to consult my books.” Rowena, with great dignity, sails off towards the door. They’ve each taken a concrete box of a room in this row of disused storage containers. It’s the same place Linda Tran was held in once, and in which Dean and Sam did some demony pest control to get her out. It was left empty as a consequence, owned by nobody on paper and too spooky for sane people to approach. Good real estate, in sum, as long as you don’t mind traces of long-dried bloodstains, and it comes with loads of discretion wards and a pre-wired camera setup that Charlie has gone to town on. 

“Gonna…” Dean looks at their little ‘camping out’ area where they have a cooler, a coffee maker, a small hot plate and a pan. It’s ten at night, but he’s not hungry. In fact the last thing he’s eaten, a belated lunchtime pizza cold from the cooler, is pacing around his stomach as if contemplating a prison break. “Gonna check the wards around this place.”

“You should go sleep,” Rowena snaps at him from the doorway. “These spells require concentration and properly distributed life energy to protect you from their effect - and to protect _me_ by extension - and having you falling out of your chair in exhaustion is not helping.”

“Well, excuse me if the hellbeast makes it hard to sleep,” Dean snaps, because that’s what he tells anyone who asks him about the bags under his eyes. The spawn of the Pit isn’t a friendly topic of conversation, but for that very same reason, it makes a great way to get people off his back. 

It’s not so much the stowaway giving him grief these days, though. He’s having nightmares. Not every night, which is a marked improvement over some periods of his life, actually, but these aren’t the usual run of the mill ones he’s learned to live with, either. As a result, he’s having a hard time getting his necessary four-hours-a-night he’s learned to live on over the years.

Most of the nightmares are what one would expect. He’s huge, like his belly is a beach ball full of water, stumbling and jiggling his ridiculous way through deserted city streets or creepy woods. Monsters are after him, all the ones he confidently hunted in the past. They smell his weakness. They hound him. On a bad night, they catch him. But he usually wakes up at that point, and then he goes back to sleep with his hand resting on the cold metal of the colt under his pillow, his own version of a dreamcatcher (Charlie and Rowena have been warned not to wake him suddenly, and Sam already knows this from long back.)

Once, the monster that cornered him was a demon, a familiar one. Not Crowley. When Crowley features in his dreams, it’s wearing a sombrero and sipping on a fruity cocktail while trying to tell Dean how to groom hellhounds. No, this demon is familiar, though not one Dean has ever faced. It wears his features, his freckles, his assuredness, his flannel shirt, his smirk beneath its all black eyes. 

That was a rough night. But last Tuesday he had the same dream again, and this time instead of getting mocked and tortured by his counterpart, he kicked the bastard’s ass and hewed his head off with the First Blade. He’d woken up cackling like a madman and half hard for the first time in ages. This probably means he needs ten kinds of therapy, but at least he hasn't had that particular dream again. Only the regular monster ones, some where his mother burns on the ceiling while clucking about grandchildren, and that really weird-ass dream where he’s a whale beached off of Monterey bay. Sam, Cas and Charlie rush around, throwing buckets of water on him, while Rowena sits nearby in a lounge chair, wearing red starlet shades and a golden tasseled bikini, reading the New Testament and making corrections with a big red marker. Dean swore off pizza the very next morning (and kept to that promise a whole three days.)

But then there was that nightmare the night before last. 

Dean scrubs his face and squeezes his eyes shut, but he can’t rub out the memory. 

...He’s not running away from anything, but towards something, a gun in his hand. He falls into dust and debris, broken glass biting into his knees. There’s someone standing a few feet away, in shiny patent leather shoes, incongruously expensive in the dirt and ruins. He looks up. The demon looking down at him is not his Knight of Hell self this time. It’s Sam - but not Sam, just someone who looks a lot like him, wearing a white suit and the devil’s smile. Familiar green eyes meet Dean’s. “Welcome to the future… dad.”

Dean hasn’t slept since then, and the hellspawn inside is getting mighty riled at the amount of coffee its parent is putting down. If Rowena doesn’t cut him off soon, the cambion will, by setting fire to the coffee maker.

Dean lays down on his blow-up mattress and sleeping bag gingerly. Everything aches. He really has to get some sleep or he’s going to lose it. But booze doesn’t work anymore, they don’t have any sleeping pills - and Charlie won’t go out and buy him any, he’s sure. He doesn’t want to see Rowena even in an oil painting right now, much less in person to have her cast a sleep spell on him. Chances are, it’ll bounce off too and then she’ll be the only one sleeping soundly tonight.

Desperate, Dean places the call before he can second guess himself, and stares at the ceiling while his phone rings.

“Dean?”

“Cas-” Shit shit shit, what to say? This is such a bad idea, he doesn't want to worry Cas, this is hard enough on the angel as it is, not to mention unfair, Castiel's not at fault for all this fucking mess-

“Hey. Uh. Had a rough day.” His voice is cracked and dry. 

There’s a small silence during which a human would say, “What’s wrong?!” or “Where are you?!” or the stupidly redundant, “You sound terrible, are you okay?!” 

“I see,” Cas says softly. “I wish I could help.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know you would if you could, buddy. Ah... can… I just, uh… Gonna go to sleep soon, but got a few minutes.” Dean bites his lip, and then blurts out: “Hey, you never told me about your mission in Ecuador last week-” shit, not the angel killing part, fuck, as if Cas needed those bad memories poked and prodded. The angel might have tried to dismiss his feelings on the matter, but they'd been clear enough to Dean even three hundred miles away over a phone. “-er, like, it was in a forest, right? Was it pretty?”

Dean stares at the ceiling and mouths the word ‘Pretty?!’ to the pitted concrete. Sure, he's exhausted, but is that seriously the best he could come up with? The art of conversation is dead; Dean Winchester just emptied a clip into it. 

“The forest?” Cas sounds bewildered, and well might he be, having just realized he’s fallen into bed with an idiot or a lunatic, or possibly both.

“Uh. Yeah. I-... uh...just want to talk…” Want a distraction from my thoughts, want to hear your voice, just want to not think and only feel the warm tingly loved feeling I get when I hear you-

“There were monkeys,” Cas says solemnly.

Dean gapes at the broken neon light holder overhead, and then he huffs. It’s the noise one makes when the first trickle of morphine takes a bite out of the pain, but it can masquerade as a light-hearted chuckle in a pinch. “M-monkeys. That’s perfect. That’s awesome, Cas. Tell me, tell me all about the monkeys.” 

Halfway through the angel’s description of a group of tamarin that decided to use Castiel's Lada for target practice, pelting it with - at best - leaves and twigs, Dean is fast asleep, and he doesn’t dream that night. 

 

\---

Next Chapter: Exile in Alma

In which Dean learns how very lucky he is, really.


	7. Exile in Alma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean learns how very lucky he is, really.

**A little under fifteen months ago, and everything in Dean’s life is still pretty much fucked.**

They settle in Alma, an hour or so away from Lebanon and the bunker. Dean insists that Cas stay at the Men of Letters HQ whenever he’s not on the road, to have a place he can rest without getting bushwhacked by any supernatural yahoo who wants to bag one of the last angels on earth. It also means Cas and Sam both have backup on their respective hunts, now that Dean is out of the game. Temporarily out of the game. Presumably temporarily- ugh, the future’s coming at him with the inevitability of a tsunami, and he has no clue what his life will be like After.

The calendar on the kitchen wall has started to lurk… Charlie scribbled D-Day! on the predicted birth date, a little over three months from now. Dean added in a big fat black pen, ‘as seen in Saving Private Ryan’, a good summation of how happy he expects the event to be, and possibly how bloody, too. 

Sam’s familiar scribble squeezed in a ‘-addy’ next to Charlie’s initial D-, and hashed out Dean’s pithy remark. 

Dean drew an arrow to that, leading to the note ‘1st amendment, bitch!’ in the margin, at which point Rowena’s elegant looped script took over at the top of the calendar with ‘Children! We need this for important dates!’ and the war tapered off for awhile, before picking up again in the ranks of post-it notes on the fridge.

Sam visits frequently between hunts, and Charlie’s there in the meantime to keep Dean sane, but the fact that nobody says out loud is that the calendar, the kitchen, this fancy cottage on the lake just outside of Alma, they are all signs of defeat. The Mark has beaten them. They’ve given up. Rowena is no longer trying out curse-breaking spells on Dean, so they no longer need to move around, and a baby has to be prepared for, according to her. Dean would have settled in a cheap, dingy motel, Charlie voted for a condo in the center of some larger town with spanking good internet. It’s telling who’s the real boss of this outfit now, that they bought (with funds magicked from some rich prat, undoubtedly) this beachfront cottage, somebody’s holiday home away from the hustle and bustle, fully appointed with luxury furniture, an elegant wet bar Dean is barred from using, and a patio towards the lake view on which to sun while dressed to the nines and lazily waving at rich twats living in the other houses some distance away. 

Other than voting herself queen bee, Rowena has changed in other ways. It’s odd, Dean has a hard time putting his finger on it, because she’s still the same arch, manipulative, self-absorbed center of a perfume zone with killer nails. But at some point in the last two months, she’s become the arch, manipulative, self-absorbed center of a perfume zone with killer nails _on their behalf_ , his and the kid’s. Dean is still keeping an eye on her - just as she’s keeping a careful eye on him - but their relationship has shifted. He’s sure she’ll still try using the cambion’s existence as some sort of leverage in her hell-game with Crowley. But more and more, he’s sure she won’t put his life or the child’s in danger to do so. Her feelings towards Dean and the stowaway are complex, Dean suspects - and the two of them have this Do Not Go there zone around their feelings that helped them earn each other’s respect. More than that, he has the notion she’s glad she’s not alone anymore. She’s definitely mellowed. Even her arguments with Charlie are more for fun now.

And her regret was genuine when she told him that she did not think she could remove the Mark from him before it transferred completely to the cambion now rounding out his abs into a small pot belly (which Dean tries hard to ignore 99% of the time, and feels self-conscious about it when he fails.)

The Mark on his arm is faint. Rowena gives it a month tops before it’s gone for good. So now it’s going to be a waiting game. To see if the kid, once born, has the power to help whatever spell she wants to try next. Though they’ll have to wait awhile before she can do that safely; if she upsets the kid before he’s old enough to understand the necessity, she’ll end up looking like a red-headed barbie at best, or more likely, a smear on the wall.

Dean sighs and stares up at the ceiling. As if sensing he’s no longer fighting against destiny, his nights are free of nightmares now - or rather, nothing more than usual run of the mill hunter stuff - but he still feels drained every morning, and has taken to napping in the afternoons like an ol’ grandpa. Since his manhood is now completely a joke, he’s given up and started enjoying the rocking-chair-recliner Sam found on Etsy and fixed up for him. It’s twenty years old, upholstered in green and yellow stripes, and clashes like mad with the luxury furniture the house came with, which Dean considers a bonus. 

That weird fluttery feeling ripples through his middle again, like a mouse briefly scurrying over the inside of his skin where it distends over the edge of his sweatpants. 

“Is it magic? Are you using some serious cambion mojo to know _exactly_ when I’m about to take a nap before you start kicking up a fuss?” Dean grouses. 

He doesn’t do this normally, talk to the critter. All that much. At least, never when he’s got company. Today, however, Rowena and Charlie are on a shopping expedition and Sam is on a hunt. Half a swim team, deceased in the ‘50s, are haunting an old leisure center complex some twat is trying to redevelop, if only his workers would stop dying. The bodies of the suspected swimmers were cremated, which means there’s almost certainly some relics of their existence back in the complex still tying them to the mortal coil, and Sam will have to find said relics while dodging Caspers one through three. Dean is reassured to know that Cas is helping Sam on that one, though the idea of his brother and his boyfriend having to wrestle back to the grave three hunky mostly naked swim champions makes Dean frown for reasons he does not feel like examining.

“...You calming down?” Dean dares (stupidly) to ask when a full three minutes goes by without further activity beyond a little nominal shifting around inside.

The kid back-hands his bladder for only response. Yeah, this brat is going to be a real ornery son of a bitch, whether it’s due to satanic power, the Mark or simple genetics. 

Dean’s exhausted, but something tells him he’s not getting any sleep now, and not just because he has to go take yet another leak. Rowena keeps assuring him how very fortunate he is not to have one of the fucking _million_ horrible complaints women think are part of the ‘miracle of childbirth’ (thus reassuring Dean that God is still an utter douchenozzle, if hemorrhoids, acid reflux, bloated bodies and back aches are the kind of miracles he hands out.) From the way she constantly harps on about it, he suspects Rowena is a mite jealous. Crowley must have been an enormous pain in the ass even before his due date, to no one's surprise. Dean, for his part, just feels like he’d been hit with several steam-rollers, and perpetually oscillates between rabid hunger and feeling unpleasantly stuffed however much he eats, without ever stopping off at ‘ahhhh, just right’ anymore. And oh yeah, the hijacker manages to lean both on Dean’s bladder and prostate, making it urgent to go to the pisser all the time and yet also hard to do so (fucking brat.) But that’s all. So yeah! He’s just the luckiest fucking baby-daddy harboring a cambion chestburster in existence! Bring on that ticker-tape parade! 

Rowena, he’s learned, does not approve of sarcasm unless she is the originator. Neither does she know what a chestburster is.

Toilet flushed, recliner back at its best angle, Dean stares down at the small lump with a weird blend of resignation and loathing. Not the happy cheery thoughts the book says he should feel, not that he read more than two pages before using Charlie’s gift as kindling to light the sage fires while doing the warding of the house. He doesn’t think “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” is up to the task when it comes to bringing the antichrist into existence.

His feelings oscillate as much as his appetite. He tried so hard to get rid of the Mark before waving the white flag and ending up in Alma. Was it because he couldn’t bring a terrible thing like a cambion with the Mark of Cain into this world? Or because he can’t have this child bear the curse in his stead? He’s not sure. Sometimes a confusing mixture of both feelings overcomes him and then he stays in bed for a day, depressed (or, as Rowena and Charlie put it, ‘sulking’, but what do they know, they don’t have the future ruler of hell or whatever kicking them in the spleen.)

The phone is in Dean’s hand. He doesn’t remember how it got there. He gives the lump a suspicious look, but that one might just be on him, he’s tending to be forgetful and distracted these days.

Since he has the thing though… he hits 2 on the speed-dial and waits, the little stress clench in his gut easing a tad as soon as the line connects and that deep gravelly “Hello, Dean” reaches his ear.

He talks with Cas almost every night now, bar those frequent occasions where the angel forgets to charge his cell phone. At this juncture, Dean needs moral support more than he needs to prove his masculinity, or whatever it says about him when he spends thirty minutes or more every night listening to his lover’s voice. It doesn’t matter what is said, really. Cas can make the stock market exchanges sound soothing and sexy in equal measure, as long as he reads them off in that deep, steady voice of his.

“Hey, Cas. You guys spot any ghostly speedos yet?” Dean ignores the mouse skittering around in his basement, and actually looks forward to the next minute of explaining the what, whys and wherefores of speedos to an angel who has just made a confused kind of noise on the other end of the line.

 

\---

 

**Over fourteen months ago, and Castiel is still missing Dean as much as the very first day.**

Castiel sits on the curb and composes himself. It takes a few minutes. The Host’s missions are getting few and far between, but exponentially harder. Initially he had a chance to convince the runaways that they can reintegrate Heaven, that it’s safe, but those few left now are the hardcore elements. They fight him tooth and nail right out of the gate, he doesn’t have a chance to get a word in edgewise. They ambush him in public, they use bystanders as human shields, they hire demons or monsters to help - they have no limits. 

It leaves Castiel feeling deeply depressed, but he battles the dark grey smudge painted across his thoughts until he can keep it out of his voice. Dean doesn’t need to hear about his problems, he needs Castiel’s support. Dean sounded so tired, so depressed on their last call. Castiel draws in a deep breath, blows it out, constructs a smile on his face and places the call (a pamphlet in a business hotel he stayed at in California mentioned ‘they can hear your smile on the phone!!’ and though it renders clerks, waitresses and others nervous when he makes that particular expression, he still goes through with it.)

“Cas?”

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, man. Just give me a minute.”

There are muffled words on the other end of the phone, regular thump of footsteps, then a creak. He hears Dean grunt, a tired constrained noise. Castiel frowns.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just going to my room, get some peace and quiet.” Dean sighs, a heavy encumbered noise.

“You sound injured.”

“What? No. Just lying down on my bed, that's all.”

But he doesn’t sound like the powerful, vital man Castiel is used to. The voice coming over the line is tired, it sounds older, stiff… the word ‘defeated’ wiggles its way into Castiel’s mind. 

“Is the spell not working?” The words, tense and worried, slip out before his better judgment can catch them. He wants to make Dean feel better, not to have to admit what his tone has already implied, that things are not going well.

Or so Castiel surmises. Thus the answer he gets completely bowls him over.

“The spell? Um, it’s okay. That is- yeah, actually. The Mark is fading.”

Castiel stares at the streetlamp opposite, moths flitting around it and occasionally crash landing on the glass- 

He surges to his feet, gripping the phone so hard it’s a second away from shattering. 

“Dean- do you mean that?!”

“Yeah. Yeah, looks like we have this bitch beat.”

A small part of Castiel notes that Dean sounds considerably more subdued than that declaration should warrant, but it’s not a part he elects to listen to. 

“How?!”

“Rowena knows her stuff, like I told you. It’s going to take a while still - maybe three more months - but then we, uh, we should be good.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Castiel says, heart throbbing with unexpected hope.

“Sure is.” Still that odd tone, but Dean is tired, undoubtedly this spell must be taking it all out of him. 

“I’ll let you get some rest then,” Castiel says on the heels of that thought.

“Huh? Wait, I’m good, don’t rush off. I, uh, it’s good to hear your- to hear from you.” Dean clears his throat and then asks briskly: “How are you doing on your end? 

Castiel cannot, right this very second, remember or care why he’s standing on a curb on the edge of Harrisburg. “Following leads,” he says vaguely. “What is Rowena doing exactly? How is she curing you?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, she’s, uh, unravelling the curse. Very delicate work. Can’t really go into it, too complicated. Magic. Mostly over my head anyway, only Charlie understands her when she starts talking high level mojo these days. What kind of leads are you following?”

The kind that leaves dead evangelists in its wake, as an angel who’s decided he takes exception to the current religious trend made his displeasure known. Castiel is not going to ruin Dean’s good news with his grim one. “I’m following in this being’s footsteps. I’ll close in on him soon.”

“And send him back upstairs?”

“If he gives me that option.” It’s certain this one won’t. Castiel had not, however, intended to let that be so apparent in his tone.

“Your way or the hard way…? Sounds a bit harsh.”

“I am following my directives,” Castiel points out. “These rogues are a danger. They-”

“I know the heavenly party line, dude, just remember, you used to be one of those rogues a few years back, as far as the guys upstairs were concerned.” 

“That was under the archangels. Now the Host’s decisions are meted out fairly.”

“One of those decisions being to send you solo to all corners of the world to seek and destroy? I don’t know, man… Hey, do you need help? Where are you? Sam’s twiddling his thumbs a bit here, he could come out and assist.”

Castiel has hunted a lot with Sam these past two months, enjoying the time spent with his friend as well as the opportunity to help him in Dean’s stead. But he does not want to bring Sam anywhere near this latest quarry. “I am fine. Keep Sam with you.”

After a few more words, the subject is dropped, and Dean talks instead of some of Charlie’s latest dust-ups with Rowena (“I don’t know, man, they seem to be fighting more and louder, but less viciously. A bit. Maybe they’re learning to get along.”) Castiel for his part tells Dean about some of the strange things he’s seen on his latest stretch of travel, some occurrences truly bizarre, others ordinary but simply incomprensible to an angel, which always makes Dean chuckle. Dean sounds a lot more energized and relaxed near the end of the call. He sends a photo of the Mark to Castiel - and then talks the angel through opening the attachment - and it truly is fading, glory be. Castiel eventually hangs up and continues on his search (currently for gasoline, he let his car’s fuel run out again.) 

His step is strong, purposeful, and he takes out his phone to look at the picture again and again. They might actually do it, they might actually have a future together as long as Castiel keeps Heaven appeased and the Earth safe. 

With renewed conviction, Castiel makes his way into a Gas n’ Sip and asks for something to ‘make his car go’, he has places to be, hallelujah. 

 

\---

**Dean…**

_Chunk_ goes the shovel as it bites into the ground.

Dean sits in the sunshine on a rickety wooden lawn chair. It doesn’t occur to him to get up and help dig out that hole over yonder. He’s comfy and enjoying a beer for the first time in forever.

_Chunk!_ More dirt is shoveled out of the hole in a flurry of sod and pebbles.

The air around him buzzes and hums with sunshine and bees. Perfect. Like a dream-

_A dream last night. His father staring down at him as he sleeps. John thumbs the hammer of the Colt. “So, you’re letting a guy screw you, you’re damned and demonized, and you’re_ pregnant _. Not even remotely a man anymore. I know what I have to do.”_

_Chunk!_

The noise of the shovel makes Dean blink and forget the stain of darkness that briefly flooded his mind. He closes his eyes and revels in the mild buzz from the Corona. Hadn’t felt that in a while… why again…?

There’s a cooler next to him, and more beers on ice. Awesome.

“Half of those are mine,” says the man in the hole, giving Dean a warning look over the lip of sod he’s dug up.

Whatever, Dean says. Or he thinks he said it. Did he say it? Everything is calm and comfortable.

With a grunt, Cain hauls himself out of the hole and strides over stiffly. He grabs a beer and sits down in the second lawn chair, which creaks under his weight.

“Almost done,” he says in passing. 

Dean nods. After a minute, he gathers words in his head and lets them tumble from his mouth.

“It’s a nice day.”

“That it is.” Cain nods, looking around the landscape; a pasture lost somewhere at the foot of the Rockies if Dean has to guess. A small one-room cabin stands at their backs, so weatherbeaten and old, it’s as much part of the scenery as the rocks, the grass, the cliffs and the far-off patches of snow on the mountains beyond. A few clouds drift through the sky. It’s warm, but the bite of spring is in the air, vivifying. 

Silence falls between them, as easy and relaxed as the sunshine. Insects chirp and buzz, and a bird chases another bird around the pines, chirping loudly about spring and nests and eggs and all sorts of interesting stuff that could happen if only the first bird would slow down a bit. The air is rich with the scent of grass growing wild and the smell of cut sod. 

“Well, I gotta go finish this,” says Cain, once he’s downed his beer. “Only a few hours left, at this rate.” But he doesn’t get up right away. He’s got a pensive air as if mulling over some words. Then he gives Dean a _look_. It’s… it’s a good look. Dean, the emotional neanderthal that he is, can’t interpret its nuances, but that look just hunted down the words dream-John said last night, slayed them and buried them deeper than yonder hole. 

Cain’s elbows are propped on his knees, like he’s feeling older today, tired and yet somehow more at peace than the hunter has ever seen him. The words that go with the look are left unsaid, other than: “Will you be okay, Dean?”

“I guess,” Dean hears himself answer. 

“Good. Take care.” The older man puts down his bottle and picks up his shovel again. The hole is large, some eight feet by three, and six feet deep.

Dean wakes with a strangled gasp, half out of the recliner, a deathgrip on its armrests. The sour taste in his mouth might be nausea or acid reflux, or maybe a distant memory of beer.

He licks his lips, looks all around the sunlit room - not sure what for. Then, deliberately, he brings up one hand and rucks up the flannel sleeve over his right arm.

The Mark is entirely gone.

Dean breathes out, slides the sleeve back into place. He leans back against the recliner again, but does not go back to sleep. 

\---

Next chapter: Boom

In which the stork arrives ahead of schedule and flies straight into a window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is divergent from Soul Survivor onwards, Executioner Song never took place. I had to take care of Cain somehow… We’ll see a bit more what that dream meant at the end of the fic.
> 
> Kudos, comments and questions much appreciated :) Especially with some upcoming chapters that still need work and are busy fighting me tooth and nail *sigh*


	8. Boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the stork arrives ahead of schedule and flies straight into a window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late, real life having happened in spades. Plus I wanted to be sure this chapter had all the punch it needed.  
> WARNINGS in end notes if required.

**Over fourteen months ago, and Castiel _still_ can’t see Dean for some reason.**

Castiel misses Dean. 

The feeling rather surprises him. Angels as a species were made for languishing after God, not a mortal. He did just fine without any humans for billions of years, and without Dean too for a time even after he’d met the Righteous Man. Castiel didn’t spend all that much time with the brothers at the start of their association; for years, he would only ever meet up with them for help or advice (their advice, his help, was usually how that went.)

He’s only lived with them for less than a year, and he and Dean were only lovers for a couple of months before Dean was whisked away by the exigencies of this spell. A small handful of months against billions of years of time without even knowing what a Dean Winchester was or what it could be useful for. Logic dictates that the latter should outweigh the former and that Castiel should no more miss Dean than miss that afternoon a year ago when he finally learned to make the perfect Cherry Slurpee at the Gas n’ Sip; both experiences brief-lived and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

As if logic has anything to do with emotions. Castiel has known Dean for nothing more than an eyeblink of his existence, and he misses him - so - much. 

He misses the light of that stubborn, bright soul, of course, and also the way Dean eats with gusto and his mouth open. He misses Dean’s warmth, the steady look in his eyes, and he misses the way Dean throws up his hands when he’s irritated. He misses the way Dean is warm and comfortable in the bunker with his family, and he misses the hunter who bursts into action outside the safety of their home, tracking down nightmares with a skill nobody that short-lived and mortal should possess, all to protect people who do not know he even exists. 

Above all, Castiel misses the way the unending hours of his life have taken a tidal rhythm in the few weeks he actually spent with his lover, centering around human habits. Getting up, watching Dean cook and eat, talking and moving and hunting, and then the ebb of the day, going to bed, sex usually, and then the tide pulls far out, leaving a pool of quiet with Castiel at Dean’s side, watching dreams chase each other across features relaxed in sleep…

At least they can talk on the phone. But the tone is off, there are subtle harmonics missing, the glow of Dean’s presence, the brightness of his expression, covering over like thunder during brief moments of annoyance, clearing again with amusement or an ironic eye-roll-

“Earth to Cas.”

“I am on earth, Sam,” Castiel says with a distracted frown. “Oh. Sorry.” It seems they have arrived. Sam has already climbed out of the car.

Sam leans back to look at him through the open door of the driver’s side. “We both miss him,” he says quietly. “Assuming it was Dean that was making you stare blankly at the dashboard this past hour-”

“It was.”

“It’s for the best. He’ll be better when he comes back, I know it. Okay? Now focus, ghouls are hard to ferret out at the best of time, we got a lot of ground to cover.”

 

\---

 

**Over fourteen months ago, and Dean is scrabbling to hold onto something akin to sanity.**

“Hey man.”

Dean spins around, gaze darting past his brother.

“It’s okay,” Sam says, drawing up to where Dean is standing on the pier. “Cas had his own thing to do.”

“Right.” Of course Sam wouldn’t come here if he still had the angel in tow. “Wait, what thing?”

“Didn’t he text you?” 

Dean hauls out his phone and glances at the blank screen. “No.”

“Oh. He tried calling, but your phone was off.”

“Had a crap night. Was sleeping in. So he sent a text? I wonder who got it.” That’s happened before. The angel who can splice molecules can somehow select the wrong name in his phone’s oddly varied contact list one time out of three. The local Denny’s in Lebanon is probably puzzling over the message: “Off to hunt more rogue angels.” 

“What are you doing out here?” Sam asks, looking around. The pier is a little outjut on a semi-private beach on the lake, an apron of sand and rocks surrounded by a hem of pussy-willows and reeds. It’s a nice spot, but not at ten in the morning on a grey and windy day.

Dean shrugs. “Getting some air. There’s only so much netflix a guy can watch.”

“...Oh.”

His brother has mastered the art of the loaded ‘oh’. This one says, ‘and I’m sure that the fact that Charlie and Rowena have started setting up a nursery has nothing to do with your sudden love of nature. I see you’re still giving denial a good workout.”

Dean decides not to pick up the gauntlet. He’s feeling bone tired these days. 

“Why don’t you go for a walk around Alma? Cas will be in Kansas City by now, and out of the US by this afternoon,” Sam adds, depressing Dean with how banal it's become to hide from his lover.

“A walk around Alma sounds like something my ol’ mentor Alastair would suggest as a new and original form of torture,” Dean bites off nastily. “It’s a stupid idea anyway. You really want me going around advertizing my condition like the fucking Goodyear blimp?”

“Right,” Sam says as if this confirms his own thoughts rather than agreeing with Dean’s. “You know you don’t look any different than three quarters of the male population in Alma right now, and a good half of Nebraska, right? You don’t need to wrap yourself in that many layers, anybody looking at you will just think it’s a beer gut.”

“It’s fucking April in the fucking midwest,” Dean bites back, a warning in his tone. He’s wearing a tee, a button down, a flannel over that - and the jacket is just common sense, it’s like 50 F out here, man. And if he wears pretty much the same getup inside, it’s just because it’s cold there too, bloody house is too big. By sheer strength of will, Dean manages not to wrap his arms around himself and keeps his hands stuffed rebelliously in his pockets. 

“Dean… we’re a bit worried about you.”

“With a hellspawn about to rip its way out of my guts in three months’ time, I’m a bit worried about me too, but I’ll let you be president of the club if you stop bringing it up all the time.” 

The look on Sam’s face means that Dean’s attempt to nip this intervention in the bud has failed.

“Rowena says it should go fine, but you already knew that. That’s not what we’re worried about. Look, you’re already kind of down. Once the-... uh, thing happens- “ (because nobody says ‘when the baby is born’ around Dean) ‘- then you might really have issues. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but, uh, after- after that happens, wo- some people can be-”

“Yeah, yeah, post-possum depression, fuck that shit.”

“... I know full well you know what the correct term for that is, even if you didn’t read the books Charlie got you,” says Sam in his patented snippy ‘I don’t like it when my big brother acts like an idiot in order to deflect my legitimate concerns’ way. “Seriously, Dean, how are you going to handle stuff after-”

“Gonna crawl into a bottle to start with. Joking, Sammy, joking. We’ll have worst shit to deal with than me getting the baby blues, you know.”

“No, I don’t know, none of us do,” Sam points out. “But how do you think you’ll feel-”

 _“Fucking relieved!_ This-”... the outburst caught him by surprise, but too late to stop now. “This is the part I hate. The waiting. Not being able to do anything. Once the hellbeast is out-... well then shit can happen. Something I can actually _do_. You get me?”

Sam assesses him with the long, hard look of a brother who’s known Dean all his life. Then he nods. “Yeah, I get you. You got any ideas about that? What we’ll do?”

“A few. So does Rowena. But it’s all up in the air until we see what pops out of the toaster oven.”

Sam’s amused snort is a quick band-aid over Dean’s earlier outburst, and Dean is ever so thankful for it.

“All I know is- ” Dean’s words trip over a punched out ‘oof!’

Tense silence. Everybody - except Rowena who has brass any glare could bounce off of - pretends that the bulge in Dean’s body really is a beer gut. Including Dean, who’s perfected the art of getting dressed without touching or even looking at the growing bulge in his midriff. When he pauses because of sudden movement or a wince of pain, anybody with sense and no scottish accent looks elsewhere until the all-clear signal blows.

The spawn of Satan by one remove is suddenly putting together a square dance. Dean takes an unsteady breath, followed by a steadier one, and unclenches his frame. Sam, who’s been staring at a duck in the water like it’s got the key to all this mess sticking out of its beak, takes that as permission to relax a tad and pretend the last minute didn’t happen.

The silence flails around for an increasingly ridiculous minute, looking for a subject of conversation to break it, before Sam suddenly laughs, high and disbelieving, making the duck take wing with a series of rapid splashes.

“Shit, our life is weird, man.”

“You just noticing that now?”

“Let me rephrase. Our life is currently at its weirdest it’s ever been in decades of a very weird life.”

“Amen.”

Dean winces again. Man, the critter is suddenly very agitated - and something’s hurting deep inside. 

“Heading back in,” he mutters. “Too much fresh air. Going to my head.”

“Okay,” says Sam, trying unsuccessfully to hide a worried look thrown his way.

 

\---

**Fourteen months ago, and Castiel still can’t get over how large his Father’s planet is when you don’t have wings to circumnavigate it.**

Castiel shoots to his feet in a cold sweat, his heart hammering against his vessel’s ribcage. 

The other passengers in the train stare at him with uniformly startled expressions. He’s in England, heading towards the borders of Scotland, and there’s an art to riding trains in this country: proper passengers are expected to not once catch the eye of their fellow travelers or stand out in any way for the entire six hour trip. 

Castiel really doesn’t care, and barely apologizes to the elderly lady he almost bowls over as he staggers out of the compartment.

He’d been fine, and suddenly he was _not_. It was as if something shifted in the spheres. His higher being’s senses are taut and raw, and his heart is screaming “Dean!” without knowing why. He almost drops his phone in his hurry to get it out of his coat pocket.

Dean doesn’t pick up. 

It takes ten torturous minutes to get Sam on the phone, even though it’s mid-morning over there, Sam normally keeps his cell on him for emergencies, and always answers Castiel.

“C-Cas, sorry, I, uh, had my hands full, and-”

“What is going on?!”

There’s a breathless silence and then Sam, talking at a higher pitch than usual, says: “What? What are you talking about? Nothing’s going on!”

“I felt- is Dean alright? Can I talk to him?”

“Uh… uh yeah, Dean’s fine, but he’s- wow, it’s noisy where you are, what’s going on?”

“I’m on a train. Can I talk to him?”

“Um, um, he’s fine, but he’s in the middle of something. With Rowena. I can’t bother him now. But I’ll get him to call you in, uh, fifteen minutes. Yeah. Okay? Give it fifteen minutes. Or maybe he’ll send you a text- uh, Cas, you’re breaking up, I think-” his voice is getting weaker and there is an odd scratching sound on the phone. “-text-”

Disconnected call.

Three minutes later he gets a text from Dean: ‘Heard you called. Doing fine. Working with Rowena. Talk to you later.’ 

He is not reassured in the least.

There are cultists in an abandoned castle near Gretna Green trying to rip open a doorway to another dimension for reasons best known to themselves. This is a crisis in the making, it’s important. It’s also normally a situation for a full flight of angels to handle, but of course he’s by himself. Are the foolish mortals ahead of schedule? Their plan was outed by a nervous demon who actually had his head screwed on right and didn’t want competition in the ‘nastiest thing north of Hadrian’s Wall’ bracket. The hellspawn assured the garrison he contacted that the ‘idiot humans’ were nowhere near finished with their preparations yet, but demons are the definition of untrustworthy. Have the cultists succeeded? Is that what Castiel felt just now, the spheres ripping open? In that case, his trip just got considerably more dangerous than originally anticipated. 

But Castiel’s heart, beating to the rhythm of _Dean - Dean - Dean_ , is trying to tell him the danger is elsewhere...

Castiel stays with the phone in his hand, waiting in the train’s aisle for a call that doesn’t come. He sways with the rhythm of the tracks but otherwise doesn’t move, staring blankly out the scratched and rain-streaked window at green fields, small towns, railway yards and traffics jams. Minutes thread by, become hours. Lights poke their way through the evening streets they pass at a distance. Dean still does not call. Heaven does, though, repeatedly. For hours, Angel Radio is jam packed with angels talking about the shift in the Ether and what it could portend.

 

\---

 

**Fourteen months ago, at pretty much the same time…**

Dean hauls himself out of the recliner with a grunt and trudges towards the fridge for a second breakfast. Frickin’ hellbeast is making him hungry while at the very same time standing on his gut so that it aches like shit, oh yeah, this is going to be a fun day-

Out of nowhere, a wrenching pain scythes through his midriff and brings Dean to his knees. He gasps - every muscle in his back and abs spasm and knot. Then-

 _Hellhound gutting him!_

Dean and consciousness don’t stand a chance. He doesn’t even feel the kitchen floor hit him as he blacks out.

He blinks the world back quickly; his skull still rings from the impact with the tile, he’s not been out for more than five seconds all told. He’s on his back and feels like he’s been gut-shot. And across his suddenly flattened stomach is- is- it looks like a flayed cat, purplish red and streaks of greasy white, limp and bloodied, pink and red fluids drip everywhere, a thick red cord twists from its middle, snaking down to a spongy bag weeping blood on the tile.

It’s possibly one of the most traumatic moments of Dean’s life, and he’s been to hell, he has a lot of traumatic moments to measure it up against.

“F- fuck! _Rowena!!!”_

 

\---

 

Dean is back in his recliner. His bloodied shirt adheres to him as it dries, a crusty irritation each time he moves. 

Sam, Charlie and Rowena stand around him like three concussed fairy godmothers, staring down. Wrapped in a blanket in Dean’s arm, the brand new antichrist candidate snoozes like he’s going for gold.

Rowena performed what she swears isn’t magic, but with a snip, some washing and a blanket, she transformed the _thing_ into a baby. The arterial purple of the skin has given way to a blotchy pink, the blood, fluids and weird cream-cheese goop are gone, the features aren’t so swollen now, though the baby still looks like it’s had a rough night out on the tiles. While doing the ‘midwivery’, Rowena also gave the boy a once-over. He’s passed the ten-fingers-ten-toes test, and also the no-hooves-or-horns one. On the minuscule arm is a teensy tiny version of the Mark of Cain. But a puzzled Rowena said it feels dormant. How long this state of affairs will last is anyone’s guess. The whole situation is FUBAR...

“Isn’t he… uh… we sure the baby is okay? Don’t we need… a hospital? An incubator?” Sam asks dazedly.

“No, dear, he’s fine.”

“...he’s not fine, we’re almost three months short of the due date, and he’s, I mean, look at him, he’s tiny and all, uh, squashed, and- and limp-”

“Samuel, dear, that is what babies look like when they’re to term. Which this one appears to be, for all he seems to have sped through parts of the process. Now, are you going to be sick again?”

“What? I wasn’t sick-”

“You are still quite white in the face, dear boy. Maybe take the air.”

Sam glares at the top of her head, crosses his arms over his chest and stays right where he is, though Dean has to agree, his brother does look a little green around the gills. He’d been the one to find Dean first, lying on the kitchen floor in a pool of bloody fluids with the baby lying across his abs, Dean holding on to tiny feet and a skull no bigger than a baseball to stop the baby from sliding off onto tile, all the while yelling for help. 

“So,” Charlie says, and stops talking as if her own voice startled her. She clears her throat, looks at the others, then gives Dean a watery smile. “Whatcha gonna call him?”

“Damien?” Dean mutters. He feels like he’s gone three rounds with King Kong. According to Rowena, the abrupt removal of the caul, afterbirth, baby and everything else will have been hard on his body, to which Dean had responded, “Really? No fucking shit.” 

… he has a kid. He should stop saying fuck.

… he has the antichrist. He should be looking for his demon killing knife.

Oblivious to Dean’s thoughts, the baby dozes on. Or maybe it’s unconscious, because if it is sleeping, it’s the utterly-knocked-out kind that comes after a fight for your life at the finish line of a marathon. It’s not twirling it’s moustache, it’s not staring around creepily and plotting world domination, it’s head is not spinning. It’s sleeping there like it doesn’t know how completely and utterly helpless it is. Like it’s… like _he_ has no other choice but to trust the adults to take care of him. 

With a wobbly breath, Dean looks at the boy in his arms. He looks at Sam. He looks at the kid again, trying to wrap his head around the fact that this little independent snoozing person was in his, well, somewhere in his body not that long ago. 

The baby’s face is squished and splotchy beneath the little blue knitted cap Rowena made for him not that long ago; bit of a crap effort, there’s gaps in the knitting and she couldn’t be quite bothered to finish the top, but this domestic urge lasted longer than the others before it, and it’s not like they have anything else on hand. The kid’s dressed in one of Charlie’s t-shirts, cut down to size and duct-taped together, and wrapped in a blanket taken out of the trunk of the Impala. Also, the nursery ain’t finished and reeks of paint. Paint!

\- For fuck’s sake, Dean’s got the antichrist with the Mark of Cain in his arms, why is he about to have a panic attack over paint? What the hell is wrong with him?

I wish Cas was here, is the odd thought that goes through his mind.

Except that would be the worse thing that could happen, Dean’s more reasonable side immediately reminds him.

Cas rang while Rowena was busy with the baby and Charlie was helping Dean back into his chair. Sam fielded the call. Apparently the angel had felt a great disturbance in the force. That does not bode well, especially if the rest of the halo brigade also got goosed. Sam borrowed Dean’s phone to send an all-clear. Dean’s going to have to call his boyfriend soon, once the world stops whirling around him. 

In his arms, the sleeping baby twitches and his face tightens. He suddenly looks very red and grumpy.

And everything stops.

“Shit,” Dean whispers after a minute.

“What? What is it?” Sam’s looking at the kid like it’s a grenade and he can’t quite see, from this angle, if the pin is in or not.

“Bobby. His name’s Bobby.”

Sam gapes. “You… you sure?”

No wonder Sam’s bowled over. That’s the name Dean would have given his normal kid he’d have the normal way with a normal woman one day, not that that’s ever going to happen now for multiple reasons. But that name… that name tells the world it’s about to get turned upside down. Black’s gonna become white, pigs are gonna fly, and cats and dogs are prepping for a tango. It means Dean’s gonna go from thinking of ways to destroy this creature, to being ready to lay down his life to protect his boy. 

But when the kid scowled like that, he looked so much like Bobby after a truly horrendous bender that Dean half expected a grumbled “Idjit”. 

You can’t kill something like that. You just-... you just can’t. You can’t even think about it.

“Yeah. Bobby.” 

The name settles on the kid like an invisible hand, giving him even more of that intangible personhood. The weird glowly feeling in his chest, that Dean has been strenuously denying, goes from a weird flicker to ‘nova’ in an instant. It’s a blend of protectiveness that’d give a junkyard mutt a run for its money, fear that he’ll fuck this up, and, well… those other feelings normally reserved for the few people who’ve gotten close to him. Fuck, the kid’s only twenty minutes old and Dean’s already fighting tooth and nail to not get wrapped around that minuscule little finger. It’d be tempting to believe this is some dark cambion magic at work, but Dean suspects it really ain’t. All the reasons he had to be angry at the alien invader vanished when he saw that the hellbeast was, well, a baby. A baby who didn’t choose to land in Dean’s gut anymore than human Dean had - so if he needs to get angry at anybody for this, it’d be his demon self, the Knight of Hell fucking bastard he’d been. But this… this small individual here, utterly helpless and fragile, he has nothing to do with that decision, or with the horrible things that might happen to him in the future. This is just a baby. A kid. His kid. His son.

Dear god in heaven, he has a son…

“Look at his fingernails. They’re so… tiny,” whispers Charlie.

“Yes, dear, that’s how they’re born. They only rip you apart when they’re a little older,” says Rowena. Dean is almost certain she doesn’t mean literally.

Dean looks up at his brother, his only family- no, wait. What a world-breaking concept. Once there was only two remaining Winchesters, now there are three...

Sam stares down at them, going on his own mental hike through the present and the future. Then he smiles. 

“Yeah. Bobby’s a great name.”

“Good.”

“Or maybe Robert. Or… Bob. Rob? Calling him Bobby- I keep expecting him to yell at me for being a bonehead.”

“...Yeah, see what you mean…” Dean can’t take his eyes off the small face and every minute flicker crossing it. It’s just- the kid’s so tiny but he’s a person, with actual- actual feelings and shit, and he’s going to grow into a- a toddler and then a _teenager_ and an _adult_ one day and- Goddamn.

“Yeah. Rob. Bloody hell,” Sam whispers with a smile like the sun rising, “I’m an uncle.”

Dean snorts deprecatingly, an automatic reflex when feeling too much. 

“Hi Robbie!” chirps Charlie, leaning down and waving at the tiny face (she’s ignored like it’s going out of style.)

“Good enough,” says Rowena archly. “But it won’t matter what you call him if he wakes up and you don’t have his necessities. The wee devil took us all by surprise.” 

Dean tiredly notes that she admitted it, instead of pretending that she’s totally in control of the situation. She’s always been so insistent she was keeping a keen magical eye on Dean and the baby’s health up until now, but it seemed she missed a few important details. Oddly enough, instead of feeling irritated for past deceit or at the fumble of the ball, all he feels now is thankful that she’s not pretending she’s more on top of this than any of them... 

“Samuel, you go build that crib we have in that oddly flat box in the garage. I will go work on finishing the wardings throughout the house. Charlie, you are on shopping duty for small sundries - if you say we can get his milk from a powder rather than a wet nurse, I must perforce believe you, but we will require other items as well. I will give you a list.”

Rowena marshals them together and leads her army out of there. There’s strength and purpose in their footsteps. Those groceries are not gonna know what hit them, and that crib is as good as made already. That half-built nursery is going to meet its makers before the day is out. All problems are going to be solved before this evening or they will be dragged out back and shot, to be buried in a shallow grave, yessir.

“You got a kickass uncle and aunt, kid,” Dean whispers to his boy. “And one scary granny.”

… and one person missing.

But Cas cannot know. Now more than ever. For months, Dean’s been protecting Cas from the cambion in his belly, but now… now he has to protect them both from each other...

Dean feels something break deep inside, but it’s one more pain in an area that’s so scarred over already, it’s more a numb ache than anything else.

\---

Next chapter: Swaddling  
In which long-awaited nookie finally happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for casual disregard of postpartum depression (because Dean), for magical birth leading to a realistic newborn in all its un-glory, also for passing thoughts of infanticide, because of circumstances. Only passing, however. 
> 
> Hopefully this hasn't scarred anyone. I did warn this wasn't a classic 'oooh, cute baby!' mpreg right from the start, though some slips in there near the end anyway. Gotta admit, I don't know where or why my own brain comes up with this stuff sometimes, but the ride sure is fun.


	9. Swaddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which long-awaited nookie finally happens

**Over thirteen months ago, and two weeks after the spheres rang like christmas bells**

The cultists had indeed managed to make their desired dimensional hole, but had gotten it wrong. Or maybe they really did mean to call forth a large tentacled creature to eat them, as an elaborate form of suicide; Castiel is not capable of deciphering the minds of mortals like that. He just knows the situation had been dangerous and unpleasant in equal parts, and took way too long to sort out.

Once the solidity of the spheres is reestablished and tested, Hannah finally authorizes his return to the american continent and home. Neither Castiel nor the Host have a clue what the latest shift in the stars means, but until his brethren find him some leads to follow, there’s little he can do. He does not intend to stay long at the bunker, however.

Nobody is answering his calls anymore, not Dean, not Sam, not Charlie, not even Crowley (but after being passed around five different demonic receptionists each claiming to be Crowley’s unique personal assistant, he finally learned that the King of Hell is in Bermuda, and unreachable at present.) He only receives the occasional reassuring text message from Dean, but that is not enough. Castiel heads back to the bunker with his mind set on finding strands of Dean’s hair, four black candles, rosemary, seer stones, sulfur and whatever else is needed for the location spell he happened upon while examining (and then burning) the cultists’ occult library. The bunker is well provisioned with all kinds of mystical materials, he should find what he needs for the spell there. 

“Sam!” he calls out without really expecting a response, striding without pause through the main room to the library-

Dean is getting to his feet at the long central table, a magazine on cars flopping loosely over a venerable Men of Letters tome.

“Hey, Cas,” he says hoarsely into the thunderous silence.

Castiel does not afterwards remember crossing that distance between them. Maybe, for a split second, the universe gave him his wings back. All he knows is that he and Dean are locked in each other’s arms, the human squeezing just as hard as he is.

“Shit,” Dean whispers, voice cracking in an odd way. He buries his head into the trenchcoat’s shoulder with a mutter that Castiel makes out as ‘missed you’. 

Castiel holds on tight and everything is slotted back into place in a perfect world… Especially when Dean locks their mouths together like he has no intention of ever letting their lips part again. It is a good thing, this kiss, a truly righteous thing, but Castiel is partly distracted. When Dean finally draws back with a wobbly breathy ‘whew!’, Castiel lets his hand fall from Dean’s shoulder to his arm, and pulls up the loose flannel sleeve.

He already knows what he’ll find there, or rather, not find. There’s not the slightest trace of the Mark in this or any dimension. The soul’s light that shines in the bracket of his arms is undimmed for the first time in over a year. 

“It really is gone. How?” he whispers, hushed, awed, as he’d been long ago when standing in the presence of miracles. 

Dean glances down, lackadaisical. “Magic.”

At which point Castiel remembers that God is gone and there are no such things as miracles anymore.

“What kind?” he asks with a frown. “Dean, what did you do? To break something like this… there is always a heavy price to pay.”

Dean looks away, mouth turned down at the corners.

“Dean?” Castiel presses, concerned.

“I didn’t sell my soul or anything,” Dean mutters, still glaring unseeing at a row of books off to their right.

“So what-”

“I’ll deal.”

Castiel smooths down the sleeve over the unblemished skin, then puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders, trying to catch his lover’s gaze. “Dean, whatever you had to do, promise or pay, please, please let me help you.”

Tension knots the muscles beneath his fingertips. “I- thanks, Cas, but no need. I got this. It’s my responsibility.”

“Dean-”

“It’s okay, it’s not going to be a problem,” Dean says firmly, looking him once more in the eye. “Maybe-... I hope I can tell you about it one day. But not for a while. Just… you have to trust me. Okay?”

“Okay,” echoes Castiel, and surrenders to the burning demanding kiss that follows. 

It’s long and deep to start with, a reacquaintance. Then it shifts, Dean’s hands move slowly dropping from Castiel’s face to his shoulders, then his waist, taking their time, fingers trailing meaningfully on the way, before slipping beneath his belt, feeling out for skin. Then they dart up like predators striking, to slip off his coat in one quick movement. It crumples to the floor, unheeded. Dean is already rucking up the back of Castiel’s shirt, searching for more contact. 

Castiel is still a virtual novice in the field of human intercourse, and human/angel intercourse too for that matter. He always lets Dean lead and instruct, allows Dean’s enthusiasms to guide him. He has few preferences of his own in this vastly unknown area. He is a patient, giving lover, almost staid -

\- usually, that is. Right this second, though, he needs to get the greatest amount of his skin touching the greatest amount of Dean’s skin, or else something dramatic is going to happen. Possibly spontaneous combustion. 

Dean snickers, a muffle sound, as the back of his hips bump into the library table. “In a hurry, soldier?” he mouths against the skin of Castiel’s cheek, next to his ear, making the angel shudder - has it gotten abnormally warm in the bunker? 

The remark isn’t an objection; Dean meets and matches Castiel’s surge of lust, matches and surpasses, hand gripping his hair, the back of his skull, forcing their lips to meld, the other hand landing on Castiel’s rear and shoving them together, a crude rutting movement born in three savage hip-thrusts. 

Castiel returns the favor, fingers trailing hard up Dean’s spine beneath his shirt. Then he leans back only far enough to wrest the edges of the cloth up and let his fingers follow.

Something changes. The body plastered to his own is now as supple and responsive as a plank of wood. Dean twists against the table’s restraint, the movement pulling the shirt out of Castiel’s grip before it can come off.

“Uh- uh, wait, um…”

Castiel leans back, puzzled. “What?”

Their bodies are still pressed together from the waist down, but Dean isn’t entirely there anymore; eyes not meeting his, hands now on Castiel’s shoulders as if he’s going to shove the angel away.

Dean licks his lips. “...It was rough. The spell.”

Castiel watches Dean, and Dean watches him, waiting for something, or maybe dreading something, it’s always hard to tell. Finally, because he senses Dean does and yet does not want him to, Castiel reaches out again, more slowly, giving his lover the opportunity to stop him. He teases up the hem of the bulky long-sleeved shirt, and then slowly pulls it off. Dean squirms against the table, maybe not a conscious movement, but doesn’t stop him. He lifts his arms so the shirt can slip over them, and then crosses them over his abdomen, hunched over a little. 

“So, yeah. I got out of shape. As you can see.” Dean stares down at his stomach with a gloomy look on his face.

“I hadn't noticed,” Castiel admits. “After so long, the light of your soul blinded me.”

Dean gapes, going a little red. His arms are still crossed over his abdomen, different than the usually self-assured, exuberantly sensual man. Feeling it’s expected of him now, Castiel looks, focusing on the material plane, but sees no immediate injuries.

“You're in good shape,” he says, pleased. “You are still not drinking.”

Dean splutters and then laughs. “Right, of course. The opposite of superficial is the guy who’ll admire my liver.”

“I see signs of stress,” Castiel adds, hands trailing after his gaze over the familiar body, the rich casing of the gem of the soul, beautiful in its impermanence, its frailty and yet undoubtedly its strength too. Splendid, as always, despite… yes, traces of ill health, exhaustion, lack of sleep, loss of muscle tone, increase of weight, signs of strain as if Dean has suffered some repetitive injury around the middle, and there are lingering traces of magic like foreign fingerprints over solid gold. Castiel sighs. “I wish I could have helped, the spell must have been arduous.”

“S'all good. I feel better already,” Dean says gruffly, his smile soft and tension leaving his body like a ripple before the water stills again. The arms uncross, fingers catch Castiel’s wandering ones, intertwine. Dean raises both their hands above their heads, palm to palm, like Israel wrestling with his angel in slow motion, and Dean’s forehead touches his gently. 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean whispers, the words a caress on his skin. “Take me to bed already,”

Castiel smiles. 

\---

They get their freak on (Dean never uses the term ‘making love’ and has forbidden Castiel on pain of ‘no more nookie’ to use it ever again, especially in public after Sam dropped his gun’s magazine on the floor that one time in Duluth.) They rest for awhile for Dean’s benefit, and then they do it again. After that, Dean raids the fridge in his boxers and brings his spoils back to bed. A slapdash snack at two in the morning leaves a haphazardly piled dish and remains on the side table, while Dean sinks back into the bed for lazy caresses curled up together (‘cuddling’ is also on the list of disallowed words.)

After all those months, it is heaven.

Wandering, teasing fingers slow and then go still on Castiel’s chest. Dean bites his lip and props himself up on one elbow to look down at the angel. 

“...So, Cas, I’m still benched. For awhile. Gotta work to get back into shape. But work - hunting work - has been building up. You know I’m not comfortable sending Sammy out on his own, right?”

“Yes.” Sam is one of the best hunters of his generation and the very opposite of helpless, but Castiel knows that logic and emotions have little to do with one another, for humans and angels alike.

“Do you think you can go on watching his six? For, well, maybe a few months?” The way Dean avoids meeting Castiel’s eyes, it’s as if he’s asking for a huge, complicated favor he finds only barely palatable. 

“Of course.”

“Why you staring at me like that?” Dean asks tensely after a few seconds.

“I am surprised that you’re taking time off to take care of yourself,” Castiel admits. “You normally don’t.”

Dean weighs that and Castiel’s expression, and then relaxes. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m pig-headed. But this spell, uh, it really reamed me, and hey, the world’s not ending right this minute, so maybe I can actually take some time to rest and recover.”

That gets a heartfelt “Yes,” from the angel.

“Have no concern for Sam,” Castiel adds. “I will protect him, just like you would. Thank you for your trust.”

The hand on his chest tenses, a subtle flinch that runs through Dean’s frame. “Jeez, no big, don’t have to be so goddamn formal,” Dean says, words tumbling out, gaze pinned to the door of their room.

Silence ensues. Castiel relaxes into it, a feeling of peace stealing over him. But Dean is still tense. The hunter stares at the hand tracing meaningless patterns on Castiel’s abdomen.

“Uh, I won’t be here. In the bunker. Not all the time. I’ll be here when you and Sam get back from wherever - when I can be, that is -”

“Where will you be?”

“Some magic crap remains.” Dean lifts his gaze and fixes Castiel right in the eye. “I’ll be with Rowena, for the most part - and Charlie too, relax.” Castiel lets the frown dissipate before it fully forms. “For starters, the three of us - me, Charlie and Sam - we want to keep an eye on the witch. So far she’s done me a solid, and she’s a good resource - and I think she’s okay deep down, better than we thought now that her back’s no longer against the wall. But she can still bear watching. That's what Sam is doing right now. We're switching off. But it's helpful to have me there. We're studying some stuff, magical stuff related to the Mark. Making sure taking it off didn’t have consequences.”

Once more, a very rational approach. 

“What is it?” Dean asks, scowling, shoulders tense. “Why do you keep staring at me?”

“You've changed.”

The deepening scowl - a little aggressive, a little cautious - challenges him to explain that. 

Castiel looks at Dean, and he _looks_ at him, the subtleties of his soul. There’s something different here, a new veneer. It’s not just that the grime of the Mark is gone, letting the shine through, there’s a greater depth to the light now. Still raw and bright and bold, but there’s new tones there, borrowed from the warmth of a sunny August afternoon at the lengthening of the day. Something different. A new maturity.

“It suits you,” Castiel concludes. 

“Crazy angel,” mutters Dean with an odd mix of flustered pleasure and wariness still. 

\---

 

**Some thirteen months ago, and a new daddy is still reeling.**

“It is such a wonderful time to be alive! You babes cannot appreciate it!” Rowena sings out rapturously as she waltzes around the room, picking up burp towels and bibs and a book of pastel colors and putting them down again in different and not noticeably better spots. 

“What is she going on about?” Dean mutters, advancing with the bottle. He gives the undulating witch a wide berth in case it’s contagious.

“She's singing the praises of the diaper,” Charlie says absently, fastening a sticky like a pro despite a squirming Robbie doing his best to throw her aim. Like most hunters, the Winchesters and Charlie have had to learn brand new skills in the line of fire, mastering such survival tactics as leaving a diaper over the blasting zone at all times. Kid has diabolical aim and timing… “She hasn't stopped since I showed her how easy they are. Apparently they are the bee's knees of child rearing.”

“Great. She ready to do her share of the changes yet?”

Charlie merely snorts.

“In my days, lord, the swaddling, the cleaning! For months!” Rowena carols in the background.

“Yeah, tough,” says Dean with zero sympathy. “Wait, months? Takes a year or more to get them clean, right?”

“Oh no, as soon as they could crawl, we'd put them out in the yard to manage,” Rowena informs him.

“Manage?”

“Yes! In my case, the hard part was to get him to not soil the house. I can tell you, his nether cheeks were cherry red for months, and I broke my switch and had to make a new one. Finally learned to go outside or in the chicken coop- but such a slow learner for keeping himself clean. Why, Fergus didn't wear pants until he was, my, five at least.”

Charlie and Dean exchange glances. Looks like diaper duty is on them and Sam, then. Dean might agree that some modern child-rearing advice seems to go overboard in the coddling department, but no need to go medieval on this kid for all that.

“Other than scarring me with an image of Crowley I never, ever wanted, got any news on the Mark?” he asks, settling into the recliner and letting Charlie deposit a clean and hungry Robbie in his arms. Robbie’s gaze, which seemed so vague and incurious the first week of his life, is now razor sharp, and he starts chomping his gums as soon as he spies the bottle. 

Rowena looks up from the tiny footie PJs she’s smoothing out. “It is still dormant. At this juncture that is all I can say. I have not been keen to disturb the wee bairn with any magic.”

“Or with any share of the care,” Charlie says, rolling reddened eyes. 

Rowena does a splendid job at pretending not to hear that. She has selective deafness down to a fine art.

Dean sticks a bottle into a hungry mouth and talks over the greedy sucking noises that erupt (kid can put down his chow, chip off the old block there.) “You look tired, Charles. I’ll take over if you want to-”

“I’m fine,” Charlie says quickly like a reflex, even though she’s sunk onto the laundry basket and her eyes were closing before she snapped them open. “Sam only left yesterday. I can lead high level raids for two days and nights straight with enough coffee, snacks and internet connection, so I can watch a baby for twelve hours. You’re the one who looks tired.”

“I just had two days of rest,” Dean objected. He only got back from the bunker about an hour ago, giving him just enough time to go make up the next round of bottles and start a laundry. 

“Two days of rest after two weeks of looking like an extra from the Walking Dead, Dean.”

Dean sniffs scornfully - managing to reposition the bottle his boy spat out for reasons best known to himself. The gumming action starts up again almost immediately, the brat is still hungry, he’s just being contrary with the bottle. “I’m fine. C’mon, Charlie, this is me. I can stake out monsters for weeks with nothing more than a catnap of three hour in every forty eight, you think I’m gonna buckle under the pressure of watching a kid no heavier than an unloaded shotgun? Give me a break and go take a nap.”

“You go take a nap,” Charlie says pugnaciously, even as she gets slowly to her feet. “I know you’re tough, Winchester, but having your baby scream in the middle of the night is stressful for a daddy, so don’t pretend you weren’t tottering out of here when Sam shooed you away on Sunday.”

“I get woken up by things a whole lot scarier than a kid wailing. Hit the sack, trooper, that’s an order.”

Grumbling, Charlie takes off. Rowena has already disappeared; Dean thinks he hears the blender working in the distance, creating another pina colada. He’s going to have to corner her a bit harder on the Mark, at some point. Just… not now. If the past two weeks have taught him anything, it’s that the first ten minutes of feeding Robbie are the easy ones. After that, it’s a merry-go-round of spit-up, fussing, burping, micro-naps, more hunger, more bottle, spit-up, fussing, burping etc etc. After all that, the brat will be tired and ready for bed, and that’s a whole other rodeo. So far the kid sleeps for four hour stretches tops before going off like a landmine, and then the whole cycle starts again, and now Dean knows why humans are keyed in genetically to love their offspring, because he’s killed monsters with extreme prejudice for a tenth of what this kid’s put him through since his birth. 

They do, though. Love their offspring. Fiercely. Even when hovering at the very edge of exhaustion. It’s why Dean’s recliner has a well-thumbed copy of What to Expect The First Year (with a note on the dust cover of ‘don’t burn this one, bitch!’) in one sidepocket, and a silver-loaded colt (with the safety on, because there is a kid in the house) in the other, along with a salt-shaker and a flask of holy water. 

It’s also why Dean didn’t investigate too closely when he received a slightly strident call from Sam to say the latter had caught a ‘really urgent case’ and that Dean needed to relieve him ‘right away’. Sam can organize the take-down of an entire vampire nest or skinwalker pack, but apparently does not relish being in charge of a newborn. The two days Dean had with Cas had been wonderful and it sucked to leave his angel alone in the bunker… but Dean didn’t argue with Sam or even examine this ‘really urgent case’ all that closely. If Sam hadn’t called, Dean might have been the one to buckle first… because even as he’d loved every minute spent with Cas, he’d also spent most of the two days worrying something might go wrong back in Alma, and just… well, just missing his boy, screams and throw-up and stinky diapers included. 

Because at the end of the day, it’s what he told Cas. This is his responsibility, and his job for now. The others are helping, they’re invaluable - Rowena is studying the Mark, Sam’s quarterbacking for Dean and handling Cas, Charlie catches the spillover and keeps them all sane and hassles them to sleep and eat… he couldn't do it without them, but this right here? He’s got this. 

After wrestling the bottle back into position after another round of fussing, Dean settles back in the recliner. He’ll sleep here tonight, like he does most nights. It’s just as comfortable as Baby, and he’s slept in her often enough. S’all good. 

Except he can’t call Cas. Too many chances Robbie might start crying while his daddy’s on the phone, which would be hard to explain. Sam will keep the angel busy, and in the meantime, Dean’s going to have to perfect the one-handed messaging skills all the kids seem to master these days, since Dean’s other arm always seems to be full. 

Only for a while. This charade isn’t going to last forever. Only until Rowena can get traction on the Mark, or until, well, until Dean can think of a way of breaking all this to his boyfriend in a way that guarantees nobody gets hurt or turned into a toy. Later, though. Right now… more than enough to think about.

“You done guzzling soon, kiddo?” Robbie’s eyes have gone vacant and he’s blinking more and more. Round one over, round two about to start. 

But that’s okay. Dean’s got this.

\---

Next chapter: Stutter

In which Dean demonstrates what a great communicator he is, and Cas shows he can be a great listener too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me tooth and nail, I must have rewritten it twenty times and I'm still not 100% happy with it, but it's better than it was at first (groan) Thank you for the comments and kudos, they really do help kick the inspiration in the pants...


	10. Stutter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean demonstrates what a great communicator he is, and Cas shows he can be a great listener too.

**Eleven months ago, and it seems Castiel has been on a path of penance for a long time now…**

The rod rams into the gun’s barrel a little harder than usual. “I’m just saying, Cas, I’m getting a funny vibe off all this extra-curricular hunting you’re doing, and if you’d stop for just a second, I think you would too.”

Castiel looks at Dean, puzzled. “Even without his grace, Metatron is dangerous, he-”

“Not that scuzzbag. I meant the other haloes you’re tracking down.”

Castiel reflects on that, still perplexed. “I don’t understand. You always say it’d be best if demons and angels stayed in their respective… uh, bullpens, and didn’t come down to earth.”

In-out goes the rod, quick dexterous movements. Dean scowls down at the metal. “Yeah. Yeah, I know I said that, and I stand by it - not you, of course, you’ve earned your ground-walking privileges. But… don’t you think that what the Host has you doing right now is a bit hardcore? It’s...” green eyes flick up to meet his for a split second before assiduously focusing on the gun again. “I think it’s getting to you.” 

“I am doing a necessary duty,” Castiel says slowly, while his mind reluctantly handles that suggestion. He doesn’t really want to talk about this now; he just wants to sit here quietly and watch Dean dexterously clean his weapons, before retiring together to bed. ‘Getting to him’? What does that mean in human parlance again? If Dean is suggesting that Castiel’s constant traveling away from his friends to hunt down his kin is physically and mentally exhausting, then yes, but it wouldn’t be penance for past mistakes if it was _fun_. 

“Necessary duty is what you had during the apocalypse, before you went AWOL,” Dean points out.

“This situation doesn’t compare,” Castiel feels obliged to point out. “I was blindly following orders that were bringing about the End of times. Now we have full disclosure, and all we’re trying to do is bring our brothers and sisters home-”

“Feet first if they don’t come willingly,” Dean says nastily. “Angels may be the new bosses, Cas, but their MO still seems a lot like old management’s. Come back to heaven or stay on earth six feet deep - and they have you doing their dirty work all over again.”

“Dean, we have tried reaching out to these rogue elements. They refuse to return, and they are a threat to humanity.” Well, most of them are. And those that are not -... a pang of guilt brushes Castiel’s mind, but surely the new and improved Host has to present a united front…? If they let the more peaceful elements go, what kind of justification-

A burst of thought rips through the ether and makes Castiel flinch. On the other side of the table, Dean tenses, scrutinizing his expression, rod half out of the gun barrel. 

A message for him on Angel Radio. Again…? Please, not again...

_I’m listening._

Information bursts through the air, right into his skull. There’s no cell reception in Heaven, of course, but would it kill Hannah to pop down from the portal to give him a call…?

 _Acknowledged._

His gaze is like some immeasurably heavy load he has to haul up from where it’s fallen on the table, up across the oak expanse, the chair’s armrest, past the motionless gun, up to Dean’s chest and pair of hard green eyes, watching him. 

“... I’m sorry-”

“Dude, you’ve not been home twenty four goddamn hours!”

“The angel I was tracking. They’ve picked up his trail again. A minor miracle at a train station- I need to go to India.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Tell me you meant Indiana and just forgot the last part.”

“...No.” The few rogues remaining have by now figured out that staying on this continent is too close to danger. Castiel was in Dnipro three days ago, where he lost track of this particular quarry. It’d be unrealistic to expect the hunt to resume in his backyard.

“Fuck. Wait, you’re leaving _now?”_

Castiel pauses in the act of getting to his feet. “Yes. I need to track him while I can, before he vanishes again.”

“Is this guy a real danger?” Dean asks probingly.

Not really, not this one. But… “It’s the decision of Heaven that-”

The gun lands on the table with an angry thump. “Don’t. I’ve heard that one so often I can sing it to the tune of Yankee fucking Doodle.” Dean crosses his arms over his chest, looking off in the direction of the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says softly before turning away and walking towards the exit. He’d really hoped to spend more time with Dean. Or with Sam, at least. The two hunters are still ‘switching off’ watching Rowena, so Castiel spends time with either one or the other, each of the brothers reinvigorating him in their own way. Dean is still busy with the witch, but he makes an effort to be in the bunker with Castiel when the latter is there. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Dean says behind him under his breath, chair legs grating against hardwood. “Cas, wait up. You got to stop walking out on me.”

“I really am sorry, Dean, but I need to go,” Castiel says sadly, pausing briefly at the foot of the stairs, where Dean catches up with him and pulls him into a fiery kiss that manages to be both passionate and still somewhat grumpy.

“I just mean, don’t walk off without, you know, saying goodbye properly,” Dean finally mutters after a minute, eyes refusing to meet Castiel’s.

“I thought you were angry with me,” Castiel points out meekly. His lips are sensitive and warm, flickers of Dean’s taste fizzing in the molecules.

“...Not really with you. Cas, look, I’m always angry, it’s my default setting,” Dean grumbles, incorrectly in Castiel’s opinion. “Just don’t… you know.” He sighs noisily and gives Castiel’s shoulder a shove. “Go on, get out of here, Double-Oh-Angel, duty calls. Just watch your back, I’m not flying to fucking India to dig you out of a hole.” His eyes flicker left and right, “I mean, call if you have an issue and I’ll send Sammy. He’ll love that place, I hear they’re all vegetarians.”

“No-”

One last burning kiss and Dean swivels away, walking swiftly in the direction of the eastern wing of the bunker and the garage. He hooks his jacket off a chair back in passing, grabs his gun, and disappears from Castiel’s sight. 

Castiel sighs and climbs the stairs dutifully. If estimates are correct, the number of rogues has sunk to eight at this point, not counting Metatron. Once this is done… and any other issue Heaven might have are resolved… then he’ll have time. His penance will be paid, he’ll have made amends to his family in Heaven, he, Sam and Dean will be safe from further interference from the Host, and he will no longer have to say goodbye.

 

\---

**Eleven months ago, ten minutes after Dean’s lost his temper _again_**

“Yeah. That went well,” Dean informs the dashboard.

Baby doesn’t respond to his sarcasm, though the sudden burst of static breaking up the tinny pop number on the radio sounds a little like a raspberry. Dean stops at a red light and rubs the bridge of his nose. 

“Winchester, you’re a fucking disaster,” he mutters. 

The light turns green like it’s agreeing with him.

The auto repair shop’s sign rears up and then falls away into the rearview mirror. Dean has done this trip so often now, it’s ingrained into his skin like a tattoo. The Taco Bell sign. The Chicken-to-go place. The tiny strip mall with the laundromat. The closed store that almost certainly used to be a sex shop - didn’t know those could even go out of business… The Leaving Lebanon sign.

“Cas, I’m worried about you. You’re hunting down your brothers and sisters and fucking killing them and you’re getting depressed. I think, anyway- you’re more quiet than usual and you don’t smile as much, and- and shit like that. Except if I say that, you’ll just deny it. And I think it’s because you don’t want to burden me with your problems, but that’s just such _bullshit-..._ But more to the point, in case you haven’t noticed, _you_ are also an angel on earth, and what happens when all the runaways are back home or six feet under, huh? Aren’t you in a ‘last man out turns off the lights’ kind of situation here?”

There’s that marker with 45 on it that Dean can’t make heads or tails of. A dozen times he’s driven this route and he has yet to see a 44 or a 46.

“Is that so hard to fucking say, Dean?” he growls at himself.

Must be, because this is the second time he’s tried to say something and it invariably ends up in a ditch and with an argument. Well, Dean argues and gets angry for reasons that seem completely out of proportion, and Cas looks at him with those big blue eyes, always so fucking reasonable and- and steady in his arguments, and just- just blind to what is really going on! It’s fucking obvious to Dean, but whenever he tries to explain what the problem is, how much he hates the way Cas is bleeding inside, it feels like he’s chipping at a wall with a blunt spoon. And then he gets frustrated. And that ends predictably.

“Fucking idiot.”

Someone nailed a cross to a fence post above a memorial shrine of wilted flowers and rain warped photos. A reminder that it’s all well and good kicking against the pricks, but like death and car accidents, the fucking Host is out there, they’re a reality Cas has to deal with, and Dean’s not sure how much leeway his angel has to argue with the others. That’s another thing that keeps him from really putting his foot down.

At least he hopes that’s why he’s holding off on really sitting Cas down and persuading him.

But maybe he’s giving himself too much credit. 

Dean’s hands tighten on the wheel. 

It’s the thought that ignites his temper each time he flounders with expressing himself. The worry that it’s not his concern about the Host, or being his father’s emotionally constipated son that is sabotaging him here, but a subconscious desire to get rid of his boyfriend. 

Dean hates that thought. Too bad it’s going to ride shotgun with him all the way to Alma now, after letting his lover walk out of the bunker on another dangerous mission.

 _Yeah,_ says the thought, smirking from the passenger seat, _but isn’t it handy that your angel is off on the job so often? Gets him out of the way. Makes it easier to drive past this fucking Smith County Co-op sign without needing to figure out an excuse to swap with Sammy._

Shut up.

_Oh, I’m just getting started._

Dean turns on to a new radio station. But even country music can’t drown out this passenger.

 _Even if Cas could stay, we both know it’s best if you’re in Alma and Sam’s on the road, right? A crappy boyfriend_ and _a crappy hunter._

...He didn’t clean out his colt properly. Fuck it all. Has he even taken the swab out of the barrel? He fights off the urge to pull over and check. 

Argh.

Some dude who’s never hacked off a vamp’s hand is crooning about ‘the one that got away’ on the radio. Dean switches stations again, then he punches in a tape. Black Sabbath burst out over the stereo mid-song, Heaven and Hell. Better. Until the tape tells him he’s a fool and to look for the answer. Dean decides that driving in silence will work for him best today, yeah.

Thing is, that little voice in his noggin is right. Dean… isn’t at the top of his game. Physically he’s still struggling. His core muscles are weak, his back hurts when he sits for more than a few hours in the car or when he walks for too long. Cas suggested he could do something about it, even just a massage, and that sounds way too divine. But Dean turned him down - and is getting jittery whenever Cas’s hands drift anywhere over his middle or back, worried the angel might pick up on something damn unusual that happened down there. 

It’s not just the physical strength he’s lost. That, he could probably make up for in time. But it’s more. He feels… new. Unsure. It’s just like that time Sam had found him at Lisa’s, after coming back from the Cage. For awhile, Dean had been all ‘rahr, I’m a big mean hunter’ on the outside, but inside he’d felt like a scared amateur trailing after the killing machine Sam had become, and just like back then, it’s affecting his mojo. Fortunately Cas was with him two weeks ago on the last hunt he’d been on, or that leatherhead might have made mince out of him (and also fortunately, it turns out that smiting works as well as a taser, not all that surprisingly.)

A sign rears up between two fields of corn. Huh, they changed the billboard. Who the fuck thought advertising for a cosmetic dentistry all the way out here is a good idea? John Deere would have more of an audience. Or maybe it says something sinister about Kansas’s agricultural decline and growing meth habit…

It really does feel like that time he started hunting while also being with Lisa. Like then, he’s been out of the game for a few months - and this time his body’s taken a bloody hit to boot. And when he’s on the job, he can’t stay 100% focused. A part of him is always worried. He has greater responsibilities than deep-sixing some random monster now. Dean is no longer a lone wolf with only a brother and a boyfriend, both tough enough to make it on their own if Dean buys the farm. No, Dean has a small life in his charge now, one that can’t defend itself from what lurks in the night, or even at three o’clock on a sunny Autumn day in rural Kansas like this one right now. Did Sam remember to put the wards up? Will Rowena’s magic choke if they actually need it? Is Rob eating alright? Does he miss his dad? Or does he _not_ miss his dad…? How the fuck did John ever manage this? How did he leave them alone for so long? Did he really blindly trust Dean to be able to take care of Sam? A ten year old in charge of a six year old? How often had John been proven wrong in that trust? It wasn’t only the Shtriga, there’d been other screw ups that had simply not had near-fatal consequences. What if Dean wasn’t up to this new responsibility either…? 

Fucking Road 281 sign, still bent and half falling down like it’s been for the past three months.

Dean and his thoughts ride on towards Alma. They shadow him through the grocery store when he makes his usual diaper pitstop (nobody even asks anymore; when they go through town, they buy diapers and formula and wipes on automatic.) His thoughts walk him to the door and stand aside to let him in.

They vanish in the living room right past the entrance.

There’s a difference. Dean isn’t alone, not this time around. Sam isn’t lying in the crib anymore, not a burden young Dean has to deal with, with a mix of love and a faint panicked resentment and pain buried deep under it for his absent mother… No. Sam, the size of a felled tree, is sprawled on the couch in the living room, taking up all of the room and then some, and even in sleep, he’s visibly on guard. The sofa-bed nobody ever bothers to deploy is off to one side but still faces the entrance; the brothers moved it there for that purpose. The screen door swings shut behind Dean and Sam’s eyes shoot open while his hand darts to his belt where he stuck his gun. He stares blearily at Dean, mumbles something indistinct, and lets his head fall back against the couch’s armrest. Ten seconds later, his breathing is deep and peaceful again. 

Dean watches his brother sleeping like a log, looking like he’s ten feet tall on that somewhat-too-short leather couch. Sam’s hair is ropy and unwashed, bags under his eyes, and there’s spit-up on his shirt. Dean remembers when he was the only one with spit-up on his shirt, quite a few long years ago. Yeah. 

He tiptoes past the slumbering giant that is his baby brother. Let the poor guy sleep. And when he wakes up, he’ll probably be out of here like a flash. Sam’s going to be an awesome uncle one day, when the kid has problems with his homework, or girls, or dealing with his dad’s undoubtedly difficult personality. But when it came to handling a baby? The younger Winchester isn’t so stellar. Sam’s being a trooper, but it’s obvious every time Rob starts crying, tiny in Sam’s huge arms, that the big guy would rather be out hunting Wendigo with a butter knife than dealing with this. 

But since Cas isn’t in the country for awhile, maybe Sam can stick around (Dean’s okay doing both their shares of baby duty now that he’s here). Since one of them is caring for Rob and the other distracting Cas most of the time, the brothers haven’t had the time to hang out for what feels like forever. Yeah, Dean hopes Sam can stay. He misses the big moose...

Dean glances at his watch as he walks quietly through the house. Nap time should be winding down. He’s ready to bet Charlie is in her room, staring at her computer screen right now, desperately delving through mythical lands of ever-battling orcs while she still can, each precious minute draining away fast. Dean doesn’t bother her, he goes straight to the nursery, says, “I’m on duty, Charles,” to the baby monitor, and then switches it off.

Robbie stirs when his dad approaches the crib, opens his eyes - a vague indeterminate blue - and starts squirming and kicking drowsily. 

“Hey, little guy…”

Rob whimpers. A warning shot across the bows, as it were. The first two months, the kid was an eating, sleeping, shitting machine. It was easy. When he cried, you knew what to look for. But a personality is now starting to bubble up inside what was purely a mechanical need for survival until now. Now he wants to be held a lot, and talked to, and rocked back to tranquility with a raspy acapella Metallica medley (Dean pretends to be more annoyed than pleased when the kid seems to like him better than any of the other adults when it came to being a walking pacifier, but he doesn’t think anyone’s buying it.)

He uses the hand sanitizer on the diaper board, because otherwise he’ll get another lecture from either Charlie or Sam, and then picks up his boy, who is ratcheting up the whimpers from warning levels to full on preparations for the launch of a ballistic wail. 

“Okay, okay, you brat, I got you.”

Rob continues to whine and whimper and squirm. At first this panicked Dean - and the others too, even Rowena, who’s had previous experience (though, granted, quiiiiiite a long time.) But then Dean realized that the kid will whimper after getting soothed for about the same amount of time he whimpered before getting what he wanted. A kind of wind-up/wind-down sort of thing. Once Dean figured this out, and knew the fussing would stop once it’d run its course as long as one didn’t try to do anything different, things got easier. 

When he’d explained the trick, Charlie said, eyes wide and wondering, that he was a natural rockin’ baby-daddy. Dean told her to shut up already, because there was no expressing the warm tangled ball of convoluted feelings knotting in his chest when he heard that.

“Kid,” Dean tells a red-faced and whinging Robbie, “I hope that when you’re old enough to understand words…. you’ll be old enough to understand your old man’s bullshit. Feel free to call me on it anytime.”

… If only Cas would call him on it. Poor angel almost walked off with Dean’s bad mood for only goodbye and sharp words in lieu of a send-off kiss. Cas just… he hardly ever loses his temper - and when he does, it’s mostly on weird stuff, like when Dean berates himself for some of his stupid human flaws or multiple character defects. It's like Cas gets angry that Dean is making up bad shit about himself when he's plainly just being honest. Maybe the angel needs glasses…

Good thing he no longer has wings or celestial binoculars, of course.

It’s… it’s almost ridiculous to think that Dean can continue to do this, keeping Cas and Rob, these two sides of his life, apart, yet the angel and his unassuming trust in Dean almost makes it too easy. It’s a weird juggling act, oddly intricate and yet smooth when it shouldn’t be, when it feels almost wrong that it should be this easy, and feels worse that it should be needed at all… 

With the way the New and Improved Host is churning out kill orders, both Winchesters agreed that it’d be best to keep Cas in the dark still, but can Dean really keep this up for a few years? That’s a conservative estimate of how long it’ll take Rowena to cook up a solution to the Mark, according to her latest research. And what will happen if ever Cas wises up and starts wondering what his boyfriend is really doing elsewhere three quarters of the time…? Seriously, every single lover in Dean’s past would have already put a PI on his tail to find out his harem or whatever he’s hiding. And hell, it’s not like he doesn’t have a secret to conceal here. Hey, Cas, I know I said you were the only one, but surprise! I had a secret love child behind your back! I kinda accidentally conceived and cursed him to get me out of trouble! Am I a prize or what?

Shit, does Dean ever not deserve either of the two guys in his life… 

Robbie waves his arms vigorously and then dribbles something slimy onto the collar of his little footie PJs, all the time glaring at Dean. Well, that’s probably Dean’s interpretation, however, it’s a fact that his son is aces at figuring out when one of the adult slaves who are supposed to be devoting themselves to him has let their mind wander.

Dean wipes up the spillover, sighs, then breathes in deeply. It always smells like warm milk in here (probably from all the spit-up, this kid is a champion regurgitator.) It soothes him, it tunes the self-recrimination at the back of his head to a mutter, a whisper, then nothing, nothing but the creak of the rocking-recliner, and Rob’s half-baked noises now that he’s calmed down and is staring fixedly at the lapel of Dean’s jacket, swaying slightly with the movement. The kid’s gonna wake up slowly for a few minutes, and then he’s going to go off like a five star fire alarm when he suddenly realizes he’s hungry. 

...maybe he is getting the hang of it. At this stage. Of course, according to the book, there’s like, a hundred of these fucking stages before they even begin to talk. Also, the book fails to mention the Mark of Cain, which means it is _not_ the complete guide to childcare it claims to be. But that’s a whole other ball game. 

Back and forth the recliner rocks, and Dean lets the rhythm soothe him for a few minutes of not-thinking until, predictably, his son goes from zero to sixty on the screaming dial. Time to check the fridge and see if Uncle Sam had the forethought to prepare the formula ahead of time before collapsing....

\---

Next chapter: Antichrist Superstar

In which time passes, and a number of adults are entirely enslaved to the whims of a creature shorter than their forearm (this is known as parenting.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a chunk missing out of next chapter that I'm struggling with, plus real life is busy, so next update might get pushed a week. Hopefully not, I've stuck to my schedule pretty well so far :) Thanks for the kudos and comments!! As usual, they are my brain fuel.


	11. Antichrist Superstar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which time passes, and a number of adults are entirely enslaved to the whims of a creature shorter than their forearm (this is known as parenting.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As soon as I told myself I'd probably have to skip a week to finish this chapter, my inspiration rolled up its sleeves to make me a liar. Not only did I get this chapter done, I managed to work out part of the kinks in the coming chapters, and now have an official total chapter number. Thanks to all the comments and kudos, they really do help!

**Eight months ago, and the Winchesters have been at the beck and call of a demonspawn for the past six months in a way that would make Crowley tear up with joy.**

Dean lowers Robbie towards the water. Little bare feet kick in anticipation. But then the wind chases a small wave over the lake towards them, a ripple of breaking white water and a tiny splash. 

Robbie screams like a tsunami is bearing down on them.

“Whoa, cool it, kid, it's just water.”

Dean lowers him down further so Robbie can test that- the hysterics that follow have him quickly straightening up again.

“Jeez, Rob, you make more waves than that in the tub, dude.”

Robbie screams like there are hellhounds on his ass. Dean doesn’t get it. The mix of sand (artificial) and mud (homegrown) along the private beach isn’t pleasant beneath bare feet, which is why he was going to lower his son down, not walk him in by the hands. Not that there’s more than three inches of water anyway, here at the very edge of the beach; Dean didn’t bother rolling up his jeans more than once. It’s unnaturally warm for October, he thought the kid who could spend hours in the bath would love a chance to splash around outside. 

He squats, thinking his boy just needs to see the water up close to lose his fear of it. 

Robbie informs him with no less than 120 decibel that this approach has not worked. The brat is going to wake up Charlie if this goes on. The house is a hundred feet away, but Charlie, like the good aunty she is, is wired to spring out of bed at the slightest hint of a bawl.

A morass of words swirl around Dean’s head. His father’s son barks, _Toughen up! What kind of man are you going to be if you let this small shit scare you?_ while a too young Dean, trying to be both mom and dad to Sammy, shielding him from everything, offers words that are too kind, too untrue, _don't worry, there’s nothing to fear, everything’s alright and I won't ever let anything bad happen to you, ever._

“Ugh,” says Dean - to himself and his inner conflicts - and then he decides to just be Dean Winchester and wing it. It had worked surprisingly well with Ben back in the day...

So he lets himself sink down cross-legged into the water and the muck with a wet squelch.

“Shit, that's cold!”

Robbie, held in his father's arms, stops bawling at the yelp, and doesn’t start again since the water is a safe distance away. He makes a damp and worried chirp when Dean moves him to his lap. But since his little bare legs, chubby beneath the poofy diaper, are well above the water line, he’s calmer. Dean can’t see the kid’s expression from this angle because of the teeny-tiny camo-colored boonie hat Charlie found online (because Charlie is awesome like that) that is required to protect Robbie’s head from the sun - the sparse crop of blond hair he’s got certainly won’t do the job. Dean can’t see his kid’s face, but after half a year of more forms and styles of crying than he even knew existed, he can well imagine the wet wide eyes, the wobbly pursed mouth - a miniature version of Dean’s but without the stubble and the hardness and the swearing - and the snot making its way down from the tiny stub of a nose to the collar of the cowboy-decal t-shirt.

“I guess it's scary, not having control over shit this big. Even without knowing all the horrible crap that can be lurking down there,” Dean says, looking out over the lake. “Life is even scarier and shittier, but you got time to learn that. In the meantime, let's tell this body of water what we think of it, hmm? That’s right! Come at us, lake! Yeah! That all you got?! We can do better!” He ploughs up a huge splash outwards and Robbie squeals, an odd blend of excited and scared. 

Five minutes later he’s still frightened of the water, but he’s happy and burbling as long as he’s above it, kicking his heels and nattering and giggling, squealing happily each time he’s lifted away in a 'helicopter evac’ whenever the lake retaliates with another piddly wave. 

There’s a lot of hard moments. The little tyrant has four adults on rolling shifts around him and abuses that. Charlie’s fast asleep at 4pm because of a tough one last night.

But moments like these? Worth it.

 

\---

**Seven months ago, and Dean still can’t quite believe this is his life some days…**

Dean sees the woman move in his peripheral vision - always a hunter, even here at the breaking of the day in this trendy and half deserted drinking joint, the only one at walking distance from the motel. He expects the chick to move to the bar or the bathrooms, not stop at his table. He looks up in surprise just as she leans down low, elbows on the closest chairback, incidentally giving a startled Dean a good shot of a mile of cleavage. Nice view, thinks Dean reflexively.

“I see you’re drinking alone too,” the brunette says with a rich smile. Dean’s gaze leaps guiltily from her chest to her face. “My girl friend bailed ten minutes ago - something about a babysitter - and I noticed your pal left you high and dry. Care to commiserate?”

Dean makes a vague gesture towards the door. “He’ll be back, he just, uh,” stepped out to talk to some angels- “-he had a-”

The woman pulls out the chair with a slow, deliberate gesture and flows into it. “Oh, sweetie, when a guy gets hauled outside by a woman with _that_ look on his face, he’s not coming back.”

“What?”

“Sorry, I was close enough to overhear.” She smiles. Her lipstick is the kind that Dean guesses is worth more than every box of ammo in Baby, the kind that doesn't crack, slip, bleed or anything else that cheaper lipstick does to make the mouth look both drab and human after a few hours of talking, drinking and laughing. This mouth looks like a model's, like it’s a foreign visitor on her face, a little too perfect and beautiful.

Wait- overhear- 

Dean does an insta-rewind of his conversation with Cas and decides it's unlikely the chick heard the part where they complained about their failure to find and murder a de-graced angel named Metatron. Her mentioning a woman indicates she was close enough to catch Cas’s parting words - ““Hannah is calling, I’ll step outside.” - but not close enough to notice Cas had said that without taking a phone out of his pocket. She was right about the expression on Cas’s face, though, a dull, whipped look that Dean had been ruminating over until interrupted.

“That wasn’t his wife or his girlfriend calling, that was his sister.”

“I still don’t think he’s coming back,” she murmurs, leaning forward again, elbows on the table in a way that lifts and highlights the goods. This time Dean manages to keep his eyes on hers. They are remarkably clear. She isn't a blowsy drunk or a barfly; she's classy in a black dress, tasteful jewelry, the look of an exec of some kind unwinding on a Friday night. It's explicitly clear in every line of her body that the unwinding mechanism she is contemplating is right in front of her eyes.

...Dean is suffering from conflicting signals. Normally this doesn't happen. He rarely pulls a chick this snazzy without actually putting out some effort. He knows how to deflect passes from drunks and waitresses and working ladies, but he’s never had to detach himself from this kind of predator before. She didn't wait for his permission to sit down, she never gave him a polite out, she was immediately on the attack; she’s obviously not going to let go easily. He has a feeling there's something obvious he should be saying, but he's busy battling half a lifetime of reflexes that are telling him to smile, lean forward, reel it in-

“He’s with me,” says a gravelly voice over his shoulder, kindly supplying the words Dean had been fishing for.

The brunette blinks up at Cas. She opens her perfect mouth-

Dean finds himself caught by the wrist, maneuvered out of his chair and pulled away from the table. The door to the trendy bar closes with a clack behind him before he manages to catch his sagging jaw and slot it back into place. 

“The angel takes charge,” he crows, feeling all kinds of warm that has nothing to do with the two beers he managed to drink before getting interrupted.

Cas looks back at him with a puzzled scowl. “What do you mean?”

“Well… you…” Dean hesitates, wondering if his read on the situation is as obvious as he thought it was.

Castiel looks forward again, the scowl intensifying. He still has Dean by the wrist as he walks away from the predator’s hunting grounds, through the parking lot and in the direction of their motel, on the other side of this strip mall area. “You shouldn’t talk to her. She wanted to use you. There is a man working there tonight that she is interested in. He's been ignoring her, and she wanted to make him jealous.”

“Oh, the green eyed monster tactic.”

“There were no monsters involved, only a-... oh, an expression. The Bard.”

“Who? Uh, how didja know? About the guy? You can't read that much off a human you just bumped into. Er, right?” Surely not- because if he could-

“She was telling her friend about him earlier, and that she would either be going home with him or with the best looking consolation prize in the place,” says the angel who could overhear and keep track of every conversation in the bar.

Okay, Dean’s world makes sense again. Sure, he knew he could pull them in, but he does have to put in a little work, usually. 

“That was ignoble of her,” Cas mutters. Which yeah, it probably was, though Dean pre-angel wouldn’t have objected as long as he didn’t end up in the middle of a fist-fight - and hey, even then, he might have been up for it. Dean pre-angel didn’t have very high standards, truth be told, and didn’t know what he was missing. 

Now he has an angel explaining in that adorable dorky way of his the various reasons why jealousy and envy are a sin, while hauling Dean away from a buxom brunette by the hand and heading straight back to their motel room in the finest of caveman traditions, not that he’s probably entirely aware of it. Dean sure is, though, and so is the burgeoning shimmer of heat rippling through his blood.

Dean has always seen himself as a free spirit - the fancy way of saying he’s king of the one-night stand - so it’s way out of his wheelhouse to be in a committed relationship with an (ever so slightly jealous) angel, but the only thing coming to mind about it right now is: soooo worth it. 

 

\---

**Six months ago, and Dean is still putting miles on Baby between Alma and the bunker.**

“Sam, hope you’re packed,” Dean hollers as he walks through the door. “Cas’s lead fell through- hey, little guy.”

Rob, in Charlie’s arms near the coat rack, throws up his arms towards Dean and burbles. He’s dressed in his cold weather outdoor wear, a quilted yellow onesie outfit striped in black, like he’s doing ten to twenty in the pen for armed robbery (Charlie and Rowena assure Dean it’s supposed to make the kid look like a bumblebee… oh well, at least he’s easy to spot at a distance even in the snow.)

“Oh, that’s daddy, isn’t it,” Charlie crows. She has her wooly hat and thick army jacket on, they must have been heading out the door.

“Yeah, yeah. Sam! Get!” Intellectually, Dean knows Cas will stay in the bunker as instructed until the third or fourth apocalypse rolls around (which one are they at now?) but instinctively he does not want to take a chance.

 _”Da!”_ Rob explodes. “Dada!”

“Yeah, munchkin, just-” Dean is interrupted by two loud squeals 

“Oh bless!” exclaims Rowena, emerging from the kitchen, while Charlie wiggles with: “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod! Dean! Did you hear that?!”

“Yeah?”

The two women stare at him. “Dean! That was his first word!”

“Okay? Yeah, good. Book said it’d be around this time-”

“DAAAA!” interrupts Robbie, not interested in any goddamned book. He’s jerking so hard that Dean goes to get him off Charlie.

“There, monster, sheesh.”

“What’s all the commotion?” Sam grumbles, coming into the room. 

“You had night duty?” Dean guesses.

Sam blinks blearily. “How’d you know?”

“The pasty look, the bags under your eyes, the hair curlers you forgot to take out, the usual.”

Sam’s so tired he actually pats his head for a second there. He glares at Dean, then looks at Charlie as if the way she’s vibrating with excitement is physically painful to behold in his weakened state. “What’s the matter?”

“Robbie said his first word!”

Sam scratches his unshaven chin. “Oh? Cool.”

“Argh!!” says Charlie, while, “Men!” snorts Rowena. “This is a huge deal!” adds Charlie.

“Is it?” Dean shares a perplexed look with his brother. Sam shrugs.

“We haven’t been around babies before, you know. Well, Dean has.”

... Baby Sam’s first distinct word was “Dee!” 

... John wasn’t there for it. When Dean mentioned it a month later, John said, ‘Oh. Alright.’ and went back to his bottle of bourbon.

Robbie squirms and jerks at Dean’s jacket. He wants to be held up so he can snuggle against Dean’s chest while looking over his shoulder, the sprout’s fave position. Dean hoists up his boy, making himself a vague promise. That maybe he’ll suck at things like milestones and Christmas and birthdays and helping with the homework, but he’ll try to be a better dad than John, at any rate. His son will need to learn to fight, no doubt, but he’ll not be nothing but a soldier for all that...

“Sam, I need you at the bunker,” Dean says absently, wrestling with a memory of the past and darker days.

“Angel watch? Okay.”

“Road’s icy out there. You safe to drive?”

“If we haven’t run out of coffee, I will be,” Sam says, lumbering off in the direction of the kitchen. Rowena follows, clucking about food and how Sam’s a growing boy. 

Charlie is circling Dean like a vulture, phone poised. “Come on, Robbie! Say it again! Who is that? Is that your da? Your dada? C’mon, kid, don’t leave me hanging.”

Robbie watches her over Dean’s shoulder, and then blows a snot bubble. Dean feels it burst wet and sticky near his ear.

“Aw c’mon!” Charlie whines. “Oh fine, at least we’ll have one more for the photo album.” Click.

Dean looks over his shoulder, then turns. “Hey. Charlie.”

Charlie's tapping up a storm on her screen. “Hmm?” 

“Thanks.”

That makes her blink and look up.

“For… for putting your life on hold dealing with my problems. And for babysitting and watching out for us and-... everything.”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Dude, c’mon, you’re going to make me blush,” she says sardonically. She’s always felt like the little sister Dean never had, down to the whole emotional distance and deflection deal that all true blue Winchesters have cornered. 

“Really, though.”

She gives him a fleeting look through her lashes. “What brought this on?”

He has no idea. Maybe it's remembering all the times Dean had nobody to watch and worry and wonder over baby Sam. Maybe it's her elaborate plan with Rowena for Christmas in a couple of weeks. Maybe it’s milestones that made him realize that, this time next month, it will have been a whole year since she joined them on this sleigh ride, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Charlie fixates on her screen like she’s trying to photoshop the picture with her eyeballs. “...yeah. Well. You know… can’t get back to Oz. And…”

On Dean’s shoulder, Rob lets loose a truly thunderous burb. “Dude,” Dean complains, “that had better be a dry one.”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” Charlie says, glancing at the back of his jacket. Robbie can mostly hold his own bottles now, has started on solids, and packs down a ton either way, but it can still come out the wrong end at times. “Y’know, taking care of the munchkin - and you lot - well, you know.”

The first time they’d been out with Robbie in the baby carriage had felt like a djinn illusion, like an angel-fabricated reality, like the weirdest pseudo-life ever. And Charlie had been there to share in its bizarre abnormal normalcy, making Matrix jokes every few steps. Alma easily assumed that the two of them were a couple, fortunately forgetting that Charlie hadn’t been pregnant before, and that Dean’s ‘beer gut’ had mysteriously disappeared. They’d been careful, and had (fake) adoption papers and birth certificates ready just in case, but nobody questioned the two handsome obviously straight and perfectly legitimate looking couple and the adorable baby with the innocuous birthmark on his arm. It’s the best disguise, in a way. And it’s life, too. Just life. Something Charlie also only had in short supply before, and that she’s now soaking in like a plant soaks in sunshine every time Robbie grins at her or she blows a raspberry on his stomach, or sings him songs her mother sung her (which are all old folk songs with usually someone getting shot or hung or beheaded, because Charlie’s mom was awesome like that, and now so is Charlie.) Sometimes Dean sees her rock Robbie with a far away look in her eye full of what-ifs, and he feels like he should be saying something...

But Winchesters, blood or adopted, don’t talk about shit like that.

“The whole place would crumble without you,” he says dryly. 

“You so know it,” says Charlie with a finger gun. “Wanna go out? We were going to go grab more diapers for his royal poopiness here.”

“Sure.” 

A few hours later…

“Dada.” Robbie is installed in his arms on the couch. The game semi-finals are playing in the background, but neither are paying attention. 

“Dadadadadada.” Apparently Robbie is trying this new noise on for size. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dean says back. “Robbie, Robbie, Robbie.”

That gets him a gummy grin with two little teeth poking out.

“Can’t believe you’re gonna be talking soon.” Deep down - very deep down - Dean is kinda glad Charlie took that photo earlier, and put it in the album… Thanks to Charlie, they _have_ an album, and not two old photos bumping around a wallet for decades. They’ll also have a decent Christmas soon, and presents, and they have bumblebee suits, and meals in the fridge - even if they are all of the frozen store-bought variety, ‘cause neither redhead in their family cooks and Dean doesn’t always have the time. Oh, and they have the best internet connection in all of Nebraska, of course.

“At least you can verbalize what’s wrong soon, and not expect me to tell the difference between holler number twenty seven and twenty eight. But… but then you’re gonna have questions. Oh boy, what I’m gonna tell you when you ask me where your mom is, I have no clue.”

“Dada!”

“Yeah, let’s stick to that for now. Softball your old man to start with, save up the hard ones for later.” 

 

\---

**Five months ago, and the family business is still in business.**

A bonfire of corpses is not the most romantic of settings, Dean’s not quite sure where this warm fuzzy feeling is coming from. Well, other than the obvious: there’s five less vamps on earth, he and Cas are both alive, and his angel fights like a boss.

Cas is at his side, placidly watching the pyre send sparks towards the sky. Dean doesn’t normally bother with cleanup, but even though the cabin these mooks had been hiding out in is in a remote part of a big national park, there’s still people about (or 'meals' if you’re a vamp.) He and Cas crossed paths with a whole boy scout troop yesterday, ranging in age from young teenagers to tiny lil’ guys who can’t be more than six years older than Robbie, and once heads had been hewed, Dean felt deeply bothered at the thought these kids could run into the sight he’d left behind. Cas hadn’t objected that this wasn’t routine, or that it's late afternoon already, or that they could just roll the corpses into a ditch and forget about them. He carried out the bodies two by two, helped stack them up with enough wood, and set the fire alight with a gesture, all without a question.

Dean still feels off about hunting, still nervous and overly cautious deep inside. But he’s relaxed about it. He’s learned to accept it. And that's because he knows he has Cas at his side to catch any slipups he might make. As it happens, once he’s unclenched, his skills and strength returned twofold, while his newfound prudence might actually make him better at planning and stalking his prey. But at the back of his mind, he knows he’s only doing so well because he has Cas with him. 

...Fuck, what would Dean not give to have the angel with him all the time. Hunting monsters at his side, chilling at the bunker with Sam, and in a beach-house in Alma with the other most important person in Dean’s life… Five times a day he thinks about how he could go about explaining all this to his lover, but he never carries through. Each day of silence adds to the burden of confession and makes it even harder. 

He does trust Cas, he does. He trusts him with his life, with Sam's life, and with the life of every innocent that would die if they didn’t cap the monsters. And Cas- he trusts Dean, otherwise he’d surely have asked questions by now, or wondered what Dean was doing away so often. Not that they’re spending much more time apart now than they had before. Whether it was during the Apocalypse, after it, or while the angels were down on earth, he and Cas had intersected more than cohabitated. The only instance where they’d spent months in each other’s company had been in Purgatory and that had hardly been what you’d call cosy, unless your homelife sucked even harder than a Winchester’s on a bad day. Maybe Cas thinks this situation here is normal, or maybe he just has faith that Dean knows what he’s doing. Which he does. Seriously, it’s not Cas he doesn’t trust, it’s the Host. Since he doesn’t want to put Cas in conflict with the halo brigade _again_ , he’s… he’s probably doing his lover a favor by keeping the two halves of his lives separate.

A log cracks with a report like a gunshot, making Dean jump and shake himself. This is why a guy shouldn't indulge in introspection; tangle himself into knots till he’s overall useless.

“These guys don’t smell any better dead than alive. C’mon, I think it’ll burn okay if we leave it now. If we hurry, we can make it back to town in time for beer, burgers and bed.” He claps Cas on the shoulder and the angel smiles, and doesn’t comment when Dean forgets to take his hand away for a few minutes until they have to break apart to negotiate a hairpin bend of the path. 

\---

**Four months ago, and time is flying…**

Robbie is on target for most of Charlie’s precious milestones, but not for the crawling one. The lil’ dude is late for that. Turns out, it wasn’t lack of strength or ability, just motivation. He’ll crawl just fine as long as he can race his uncle or aunty on hands and knees. The book did state that delays in this kind of activity are not alarming, and it also suggested incentives and games.

It did not have any input about secretly filming said uncle for future blackmail material, but the authors probably thought that went without saying.

“Yeah! Who’s a good boy?! You are! Wow, so fast! Who’s a fast boy?! Go Robbiekins! Go buddy!” croons Sam, doing a micro crawl at the kid’s side to avoid outpacing Robbie by feet.

Dean, lurking in the doorway, bites down on the inside of his cheek to rein in a lunatic snicker as he keeps his phone’s camera swinging from Robbie’s determined expression to Sam’s ridiculously gooey one. Instant family-movie classic, coming right up...

 

\---

**Three months ago, and Dean's back at the bunker for a few days…**

Cas smiles, that gummy one Dean is probably only one out of two people in heaven and earth to see. He doesn’t eat, but he sure loves to watch Dean enjoy his pie and try to talk at the same time.

\---

**Two months ago and Dean’s getting the hang of it, really.**

The blocks have animals painted on them, they're supposed to stack by size, from elephant to mouse. Robbie is currently examining the one with the stoned-looking giraffe. 

“Bok!” Robbie declares followed by baby chatter. Then the block goes sailing off towards the settee where it thumps into a cushion and joins the cow and the dog. Par for the course. So far, his son has managed to find every way of taking these games and subverting them, and Dean wonders if this fact should make him feel as proud as it does. This particular ‘game’ is new. Good aim on this kid. Runs in the family. 

Robbie hands Dean the next block. The hunter sends it sailing after the others. They grin at each other. 

Man, this is amazing, every day is different. He doesn’t want to miss a moment, he never wants to leave.

\---

**One months ago and Dean’s right where he needs to be.**

That look of concentration on Cas’s face stutters and fades into pure bliss, a flash of neon blue from his eyes as his back arches - no hesitation, thrown wide open for Dean, nothing held back, pure and beautiful. Dean almost forgets his own pending orgasm, it really seems irrelevant… an ache of tormented pleasure down south reminds him that no, it isn’t irrelevant in the slightest. He starts moving again, eyes deep in his lover’s, entranced- he wants this moment to last forever, he never wants to leave. 

\---

And life continues to spin on like a penny on its edge, ignoring gravity about to reach out and snatch it.

\---

Next Chapter: Following Orders 

In which things are going a bit too well, apparently, so Heaven happens.


	12. Following Orders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are going a bit too well, apparently, so Heaven happens.

**One month ago, and Castiel is delighted there are no traces of the last rogue angel on Heaven’s list; he has other plans.**

The day starts out well enough. The early morning is crisp and clear, the road not too busy, and Castiel is heading home. Even better than that simple-yet-ever-so-important word, home, is the fact that both his friends are waiting for him there. Some witches are ‘getting unionized, and that can’t be good’, as Dean put it, but he didn’t sound all that concerned over the phone. He’s willing to let Charlie be in sole charge of Rowena’s surveillance for once, that’s a strong indication he’s not worried about the most dangerous wiccan in his circle. Next to some of the dangers the Winchesters and their enabling angel have dealt with in the past few years, a few throw-back Old World witches coming to the US, forming a cult and cursing a few people is almost a non-event. It’s been over a year since the three of them have been together in the same room, and Castiel is willing to bet the hunt is mainly an excuse for some quality family time. They are all looking forward to it.

And then his phone rings.

Castiel, as a angel, is well positioned to know how the universe works. And no, humans are wrong, particularly that lady on the radio perpetually singing about rain on wedding days: there is not some overarching cosmic imperative dedicated to irony. Good things and bad things happen all the time, perfectly naturally, and their seeming alignment is merely coincidence. 

So when the phone rings again and the caller ID flashes “Hannah”, Castiel knows there isn’t some horrible jinx at work here. It’s just regular infuriating bad timing. 

“Hannah, I said I needed some time to help my friends, we-”

“Are you near Kansas City?” Hannah interrupts. 

Castiel focuses a second, centering himself on the good earth their Father made, and then remembering the small pinpricks the humans have named and keep constantly changing every few centuries. “Yes. Less than an hour away. But I need to-”

“Forget the Winchesters!” Hannah snaps. “You need to go to the south of Kansas City now.”

“Is it Metatron?”

“No-”

“Then it can wait. I have hunted down-”

“Castiel-”

“-every single rogue whose tracks you’ve put me on, and the one remaining-”

“Castiel! Please!”

“-this ‘miracle sister’ isn’t a danger to humans, she can wait until-”

“It’s a nephilim!”

Castiel abruptly stops the car in the middle of the road.

“...What?”

“Do you remember Sariel?” 

Memory twinges. Seven months ago. One last desperate savage swing that nearly scored Castiel’s shoulder. Then the flaring light of an eternal being dying on his blade.

“Are you saying…”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

Sariel was a scout and infiltrator during the apocalypse, he’d been on earth almost as long as Castiel, which made him difficult to track down. In that time, he must have formed a strong bond with a human. In much the same way Castiel has. The twinge in his mind becomes an acid burn, a cringing thought, ‘no wonder he fought so hard to stay here, to stay alive… I would have done the same…’

But a nephilim. Of all the irresponsible-

“Is that what we felt last year? The disturbance in the spheres?”

“That is our working hypothesis. It did not feel like the conception of a Nephilim, I know, but it seems Sariel hid the child from us somehow and this may have interfered with the signal.” Hannah's curt tone summarizes the fact that all rules went out the window the day the apocalypse derailed, and now they have to play it by ear. ‘Either way, we have picked up tracks. The mother, the human who birthed the creature, is on the run with it. I have a team in pursuit.”

Castiel frowns. “A team? You have a team down on earth?”

Hannah doesn't answer right away. A car slows down behind Castiel. It flashes its lights, honks, and then pulls around him with a shouted imprecation and a growl of motor.

“Yes. Exceptionally, in view of the circumstances. Castiel, you need to help too. The flight had to split up in groups of two to cover all possible avenues of escape, and they may still not be enough to run them down. The mother has means to hide, if she manages to evade them and goes to ground again-”

“She’s in Kansas City?”

“Heading south towards Harrisonville, last we heard, but we think she left the, uh, that big road the humans have, and might be taking the back roads.”

Castiel reaches for the transmission, but pauses with his hand on the knob. “Wait, what are we going to do when we find them? The mother and the child?”

“Find them. The Host will decide.”

Castiel stays frozen with his hand on the lever for a few seconds, then he puts the car in reverse and does a u-turn on the road. A distant trucker blares his horn.

“Hannah, what exactly-”

But she’s hung up.

To have called him, she must be on earth too. The thought drifts through his mind. But then he focuses. 

A nephilim. They’d been idiots not to have foreseen the possibility, what with all the angels who’d been released on earth during their exile, unruly, abandoned and forlorn. 

...An angel knows what has to be done with nephilim. And for good reasons. Very good reasons. 

Castiel drives in the direction of Harrisonville, reminding himself of those reasons, as well as those for obedience to his duties, at least once in every mile.

 

\---

 

He doesn't make it in time.

To have remained hidden so far, the child must have been in a heavily warded environment, and would possibly have been safe if she’d stayed there until she was old enough to use her powers to hide herself. But the human mother had panicked. Maybe - and isn’t this a grim thought - because she finally realized that the silence from Sariel means he’s dead. More specifically, that Castiel found him. Or maybe something spooked her. Either way, she fled whatever safe haven she had until then, and at one point, her careful camouflage slipped. 

And the angels found her.

By the time Castiel arrives, it’s over. Two of his brethren had picked up the mother’s tracks and pursued her along a near-deserted backcountry road, and in her panic, her car had slewed off the asphalt and into a deep ravine. The nephilim wasn’t even two years old, too young to save itself. When Castiel arrives on the scene, the small hybrid soul has already left for Heaven, and the mother follows before he can do anything.

The other trackers, Jonah and Efram, are congratulating themselves on a job well done. Castiel says nothing as he stands at the lip of the road near the broken guardrail. He feels sick to his stomach, and he doesn’t think it’s the fumes from the burning car below.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Jonah says in a voice that rakes unpleasantly across Castiel’s nerves. He slaps Castiel on the shoulder. “We keep telling Hannah and the others they should send us down to assist you more often. You know, if you tell them-”

“Stop touching me,” Castiel says quietly without turning around or looking away from the burning wreck.

Though Castiel spoke quietly, tonelessly, Jonah jerks his hand away. Then he stuffs it in his pocket with forced casualness as if he’d intended to do that all along. 

Castiel follows the motion from the corner of his eye, then turns fully to evaluate the way Jonah now stands, his pose, the tilt of his chin, the smirk on his features hiding a little uncertainty.

“You have impressive human mannerisms.”

Jonah relaxes. “It’s called blending in. The monkeys are not that hard to imitate.”

“Just have to choke down your dignity,” Efram says unpleasantly under his breath from where he stands five meters away, looking down at the wreckage with his angel blade still in his hand.

“Blend in,” Castiel repeats. “I have been on earth for years now. I do not blend in that successfully.”

“I’ll give you pointers,” Jonah says condescendingly. Efram smirks, cold and hard, an expression that does not touch his eyes or echo in his grace.

“It makes me wonder how long you two have been down here.”

The smirks vanish.

“We were down here for a year when we were all banished-”

“And if Hannah knows.”

“What are you saying? Jonah blusters, hands coming out of his pockets and hovering near the back of his belt.

“I am saying that I hunt rogue elements who come down to earth without permission from the entirety of the Host,” says Castiel, turning away. “Do you know her name?”

“Who?” Jonah asks, sounding confused.

“The mother.”

“You mean the human?”

“I see. Goodbye, brothers. I suggest you return to Heaven now.”

Kansas City will be his first stop. It’s early morning still, odds are good that she slept there last night, most likely in a discreet motel near the highway. If not, then from the way the car is burning, it has been fueled recently, and he’s noted the licence plate. Stations in these parts all have surveillance cameras and Castiel has a badge, courtesy of the Winchesters and a Kinko’s. He should be able to backtrack her that way. Find out how she paid for gas, or under what name she booked a room for herself and her daughter. 

...The child was too old for her conception or birth to have triggered that shift in the ether a year ago - and that had been an order of magnitude greater than the offspring of a low-order angel like Sariel would be capable of. But that’s not the matter at hand.

 

\---

 

“Finally! What time do you call this?” Dean looks pointedly at his watch. He has a beer can in hand, there are empties on the table, as well as take-out for a very late lunch, a rumpled magazine, a couple of books and a laptop with a game full of bright colors on the screen. Both brothers are sitting at the library table, looking bored. “When you said you’d be here ‘sometime today’, we thought you meant early afternoon at the latest. It’s almost six.”

“I apologize.” Castiel joins them slowly. The paper in his hand, stuffed into his coat pocket, crinkles. “I should have called you. I forgot.” 

“Cas? You okay?” Dean is looking at him worriedly. There was a time when Castiel had been unreadable to mortals...

“A mission. Unexpected.”

Sam looks terribly disappointed. “I thought they were going to leave you alone for a bit. We could really use your help on this Hecate Cult crap, and, well, it’s been ages since we all hung out.”

When Castiel doesn’t respond, Sam glances from him to his brother, a little unease starting to show. Dean hasn’t looked away from Castiel. 

“Cas?” he asks quietly. “What is it?”

“...I need your help.”

“Is it Metatron?” Dean is half out of his chair already, gesturing towards his room with his beer can. “Tell me it’s Metatron, I can have my bags packed in-”

“It’s not Metatron.”

Sam frowns. “I thought everybody decided that last rogue running around isn’t a high priority target. All she’s doing is scamming money and healing people, it’s hardly an apocalypse.”

“No. Not her. There’s… been a complication.”

“What’s that mean in secret agent angel speak?” Dean queries.

“One of the rogues, before I-... caught him. He hid this from us, you understand, we didn’t know. He, they, he and the human he was with, they had a child. A nephilim.”

The brothers stare at him. “A nephilim? A baby angel? Er, hybrid thing?”

“Yes.”

“Is that a problem?” Dean asks slowly just as Sam says, with a worried frown, “Aren’t they supposed to be really powerful? More so than their parents?”

“Yes. And yes,” Castiel answers. In his pocket, his fingers wring the paper. 

There is silence again, a dense twisted silence winding up like a spring as Dean puts down his beer, eyes not leaving Castiel’s.

“What did you do?” he asks in a hushed tone.

“...Hannah sent other angels after the mother and child. But there was an accident-” Sam leans forward so abruptly he knocks an empty can over. He doesn’t look down as a few remaining suds trickle across the table. “They both died before I arrived.”

The brothers stare at each other. Then they stare at him. 

In Dean’s hand, the can creaks and dents. “Tell me you were going there to stop them.”

“Stop-”

“Stop them from harming that baby! And his mom!” Dean’s chairlegs screech across the floor, he’s half out of his seat like he’s about to throw himself across the table and attack.

Castiel doesn’t say anything and in the background, the clock ticks and tocks away the seconds left until the next question, the inevitable question. 

Dean’s mouth moves, but it takes two tries for the words to come out. “...What… would you have done if you’d gotten there first?” 

Castiel has asked himself that self-same question, standing at the edge of the road with smoke hanging over the scene like a mourning veil. He still doesn’t have an answer. But his lack of answer is in itself a response.

“I can’t believe it…”

“...Dean-”

Dean bursts out of his chair and spins away, facing the far wall, fists balled on hips. Despite the aggressive pose and the distance between them, Castiel can see his lover is shaking. 

“You- you wouldn't have.” Sam sounds shell shocked, almost plaintive. He’s always been the kindest of the two brothers, the most gentle when life allows it.

“The Host would have made a decision on… how to handle things.”

Dean spins around and slams both palms on the table, making the heavy oak furniture shudder. “The Host?! What will they do?! _He’s just a baby!”_

Sam goes white in the face, surges to his feet and grabs his brother by both shoulders, pulling him back from the table and from Castiel. “Dean! _Quiet!”_

Castiel’s hope that Sam will calm Dean down, mediate between them, is punctured by the single horrified look Sam gives him, but then the hunter focuses on his brother, giving him a shake and staring at him intently as if he’s trying to communicate without words. 

Dean’s breath is ragged. He clamps his jaw shut, teeth visible in a feral snarl. Then he shakes his brother away. He paces, three steps away, three steps back, hand pressed to his mouth. Then he spins towards Castiel, eyes burning. “Don’t think, because the Host calls the shots, that your hands are clean!”

“I know.” Never for a moment has it crossed Castiel’s mind to absolve himself of this responsibility. 

“How were they-... _What_ exactly were those angels going to-” Dean looks like he’s going to have to shoot something before he can stomach the end of that sentence. His shoulders are tight, coiled for incipient violence.

“I don’t know. Our orders were only to find the family. I imagine the Host would have ordered us to take the child to Heaven. And… the mother would have had the option to follow, if she wished.”

“Huh?” Sam seems startled. “That doesn’t sound that bad.”

“...Nothing alive can ascend to Heaven, Sam.”

For a long time, nobody says anything.

Castiel’s words sound stilted when he finally speaks. “I know this is hard to understand. But you were not there in the post-Eden era. Nephilim as a group, however few, almost destroyed the earth. They enslaved vast tribes of early men, put themselves up as gods, demanded human sacrifices, obliterated any who resisted. They-”

 _“He’s a baby!”_

“Dean!” Sam croaks, eyes wide, grabbing his brother’s shoulder and shaking.

Dean gestures savagely, teeth bared, as if clawing at his mistaken generalization of the child’s sex and age: “You know what I mean, I meant that kid who- who-”

“It was a girl. A two year old girl.” Castiel’s throat closes on that last word in a way he has never experienced before. 

Dean rubs his eyes with his fists, hard, then he snarls: “You don’t think that’s _fucked up?!_ A _kid?!_ A two-”

“Children grow up, Dean.”

Sam’s jaw drops. Dean goes white in the face.

“Their powers are greater than mine, especially now, with my wings clipped. Back in your early history, most cases of biblical holocausts - the flood, Sodom and Gomorrah, plagues and such - were caused by Nephilim or by heaven’s retaliation against them. That is why the penalty for creating one is so stringent.”

“There was only one, though,” Sam says. The argument sounds weak, he’s staring at the ground, standing stiff and brittle as if the hand anchored on his brother’s shoulder is the only thing keeping him up.

“In our present condition - angels decimated, our wings destroyed - one is enough to wreak havoc. Besides, there wouldn’t be only one for long. They are extremely long-lived, and sooner or later-... If we don’t apply the rules rigorously, then angels will no longer have incentive to follow them, especially now, with God and the archangels gone. It’s only a matter of time until we have more than one, and that would be…” Castiel casts around, trying to find a way to make them understand the scope of what that would entail. 

Oh right. 

“Do you remember what you refer to as my rampage? When I stole all the souls from purgatory?”

The brothers stare at him, both startled and appalled. That’s one of those subjects that’s just not discussed anymore.

“It will be like that. Probably worse.”

“Yeah,” says Dean after pause, “but we stopped you, remember? You lot didn’t have to go Terminator on that kid. _If_ he’d- she’d gotten out of hand when she grew up, we could-”

“I stopped myself, to get rid of the Leviathan overtaking me,” Castiel corrects tonelessly. “Though I failed, as it were.”

“We didn’t kill you, is what I’m saying!”

“I recall that you tried,” Castiel points out. “You probably should have tried harder,” he adds, looking down morosely at the hardwood floor.

Even across the feet of space separating him, he can feel Dean flinch. His lover’s hand flies to his mouth, hiding his expression, but his eyes are wide and boil with conflicting emotion.

“I’m sorry. I know you don’t understand. But I could not stand by, Dean. I saw what they can do. I will not let humans fall prey to one of these creatures again,” Castiel concludes, and he _knows_ he’s right. He remembers the terrible glory of the first nephilim he ever encountered, burning the earth to ash beneath his feet. Though he also remembers the last nephilim he’d met who’d done nothing more dire than serve him french toast...

The two brothers stare at him. Overhead, the electric lights hum, the clock ticks in a corner, counting out more seconds, then minutes.

Finally Sam stirs. “You said you need our help. When you first came in.”

Dean’s stunned look transcends immediately into one of growing heat and fury.

“Not with that,” Castiel says hastily. “Not directly. I backtracked the family after the accident. The mother stayed at a motel last night, but I think she used a false name.” He takes out of his pocket the wrinkled paper with the details he’d noted from the hotel manager after money exchanged hands. “Can you help me find her family? They should be notified.”

Sam stares at him as if he’s not quite sure he believes the angel, but finally he shakes himself and moves to his laptop which had gone dark where it had been abandoned on the table. “I… I can do that. Yeah. Um. Dean…?”

Dean stares at the clock in the corner. Then he glances back at his brother, and only his brother. 

“You help Heaven’s hitman notify next of kin. I have other places to be.”

And then he’s gone, striding towards the garage without a look back.

 

\---

 

**One month ago. Dean is not in a good place.**

Signs on the highway flash by unseen as Dean does the one hour trip to Alma in thirty eight minutes.

Baby scores the gravel of the driveway and slews more than rolls into her parking space. Dean is out the door before the motor fully shuts down. 

Charlie sends a bowl of popcorn flying towards the ceiling in shock as Dean blows in, door slamming hard into the wall and scoring the faux wood decor.

“Dean?! What the-”

“Are the wards in place?” Dean barks.

“Er, yeah, I check ‘em every day- what’s going on?”

“Check them again,” he orders curtly, striding towards the nursery.

“What is that racket?” Rowena hisses, emerging from Rob’s room before Dean can reach it. “He’s just gone down for- what the devil, man?!”

Dean foils her attempts to close the door with a palm slammed against the wood, flinging it back. 

Rob is in the crib, on his back in his red footie pjs, blinking sleepily. His eyes - more green than blue now - jump towards the loud noise, and he huffs and whimpers when he sees Dean, but then his features go lax and he yawns, a miniature gesture that is entirely adorable. He blinks and stares up towards the ceiling again, sucking at his fingers.

Dean breathes out slowly, deeply, letting his head sink against the door’s paneling.

“There, he’s fine and going down for his nighty-night at very long last,” Rowena says tartly as if Rob’s requirement for extended sing-songs and readings are all Dean’s fault in general and tonight’s in particular. “Now what is the meaning of this kerfuffle?’

“Is your magic on? Anything come sniffing around?”

Those exquisitely defined eyebrows scour him with a particularly sardonic arch. “My magic is, as you say, ‘on’. The night _was_ quite peaceful until your arrival.”

“We need to be more careful. We need to be vigilant. You, we all, need to check the wards morning, noon and night. Double check those charms you put on him when he goes out. Let’s not take him out too much. And Rowena? Whatever you do to hide us from unfriendly eyes? Do more of it. There can’t be a single whiff of power escaping here. Yeah.,, No. No, no, that’s not enough. You said you had a way to lock up his magic for awhile, until he’s older, right? A spell? Do it.”

Rowena scowls, a raw expression that’s a far cry from her usual theatrical ones. “I regret telling you about that binding spell. That is-… It is not something I would wish to do to anyone, and certainly not to our little Robert. I have personal experience with it, and it is-”

“Tough,” Dean grinds out. “Suck it up and _do it.”_

Rowena tsks.“But why? He’s a wee angel, why are you suddenly going overboard?”

“Because the mobile over his crib has been spinning for the past two minutes,” Dean says tightly.

Rowena glances absently over her shoulder. “Aren’t they meant to do that?”

“Not when they don't have a motor, _no.”_

“A little bleedover of power is normal, dear, nothing to worry about.”

In the room lit gently by a bumblebee nightlight, the mobile made of pastel-colored cars (and a photo of the Impala dangling from a central string) turns around and around with a faint creak every few seconds.

“Is there?” Rowena asks slowly, eyes narrowed to slits as she takes in his face, his pose.

“Dean? What is it?” Charlie’s question is timid behind him.

“Check those wards?”

“Yeah. Dean, you’re scaring me. Rob’s done stuff like that before, you’ve seen him. Did… did something find him?” 

“Not yet.” Dean straightens. “Not ever.”

“Do we need to move?”

“No. That’s the last thing we want to do,” says Dean, thinking of a fleeing mother ending her life in a car crash. “This place is as warded and fortified as anything-” anything that isn’t a bunker with an angel inside… “We’re staying here.”

He walks up to his son, stops the mobile spinning with his fingertips, which he then lays on the toasty warm belly. Always amazingly hot, this kid. Warm and cuddly in his daddy’s arms...

“You’ll be safe, little man. I promise,” Dean whispers. “But no more playing around, okay?”

That won’t do zilch, of course. Rob’s only a month and change over the age of one, too small to understand instructions yet. Rowena’s going to have to suck it up and do the binding spell first thing tomorrow. 

Though his boy can in no way understand what his father just asked, the blue-green eyes flutter shut. Robby burbles a few baby-words before sucking his fingers noisily, and the mobile doesn’t start spinning again the whole night Dean stands watch at his son’s side, waiting for dawn.

 

\---

 

**A month ago, a day after a car went over a railguard before Castiel could reach it.**

After his trip to Minnesota, where the police department in a small town an hour from Minneapolis received an anonymous tip about the disappearance of a local resident, Castiel returns to the bunker. He can’t really think of any other place to go. 

Nobody else is home. Castiel sits at the library table, but does not open a book.

He sits there for two days. He moves once, to remove a fly that somehow wandered into the bunker and is buzzing repeatedly against a lamp, thinking it’s a window to daylight and salvation.

Late in the evening on the second day, he hears the bunker door open. Well known footsteps brush across concrete, metal stairs, hardwood floor. A jacket gets tossed on a chair, the ch-chink of a gun being checked and put down on an antique side table.

Dean stops abruptly beyond the entrance to the library, his expression near unreadable.

“Did you find the family?” he asks after a minute.

Castiel nods.

Dean enters the room, walks over slowly, eyes still on Castiel. He sits down at the corner of the long table, a few feet away, and watches the angel unblinkingly.

Castiel sits without moving.

The silence grows like a cancer. Castiel charts its extent without much expectation.

He can see the beginning of phrases cross Dean’s mental space. Knuckles tighten - an aggressive barb is contemplated, discarded. A faint lean forward; a question demanding an answer, which stays unasked. Leaning back and looking away; maybe giving up before he even begins.

Then Dean looks at him. Really looks at him. Eyes pace over his features. Measure the slump in his shoulders beneath the trenchcoat.

“You-...” 

Dean clears his throat. The library stands shocked that the hush of the past two days has been shattered. 

The human crosses his arms and looks away once more, but the silence is broken now and can’t be repaired.

When Dean’s question finally comes, it is quiet, simple. “Cas. If you’d gotten there first. Would you really have done it?”

Magnificent terrible beings with the power of angels and the freedom of men striding across a battlefield. Castiel has killed two of them before - three, counting the one Metatron led him to. 

“I don’t know.”

Dean’s eyes widen at Castiel’s tone, as broken as the silence.

“Well at least you feel shitty about it,” he gruffs, a waver at the back of his voice. 

“Yes.”

Something softens in Dean’s demeanor.

“I… Look. I don’t doubt it’d have been a hard choice. I mean. Back when I…” Dean hauls in a breath as if he’s about to inch out onto a very narrow bridge over a horrible chasm, and then he says in a rush: “Back when I met Jesse, my first instinct was to-... Jesse Turner, uh, you remember. The, uh…”

“The cambion,” Castiel says, helping him out with the term. It is after all an archaic one, those terrible creatures being considerably rarer even than nephilim.

Dean’s chair rattles against the floor as if the man has flinched.

“I know what you’re about to say, Dean. That you also considered ending Jesse Turner when you knew what he was, despite his age.”

Dean’s adam’s apple bobs. He stares fixedly, almost desperately, at a series of encyclopedias on a nearby shelf.

“But you and Sam didn't in the end.”

“No. You know, there’s stuff your logic tells you, but when you actually come face to face with the real thing… well, then you know what’s right. I don't think you’d have done it. The nephilim and her mom. I mean, look at you, you didn't even get close to them, and you’re beating yourself up over it.”

“I am.”

“Yeah, I know, Cas,” Dean says gently. 

“I feel terrible.” Castiel stares down at his hands. The little girl’s hands had been tiny. “I hate myself for what happened out there even if I wasn’t directly involved. But Dean.” His voice sinks to a whisper. “If I’d gotten there first. If it had been my choice. I am pretty sure I would have done it anyway…”

There is a terrible silence from Dean, and then a mulish: “I don’t believe that.” 

“Dean…”

“No. Shut up, okay? You’ve done some pretty shitty stuff in your time, Cas, but you do the right thing even if it’s on the last inch of the bloody finish line. I… I have to believe you’d have done the right thing this time too.”

“That’s just the point, Dean, obeying the Host-”

“Don’t,” Dean says sharply. 

Silence falls once again. 

“It’s late,” Dean states, getting abruptly to his feet (it’s only 9 pm, but Castiel doesn’t correct him) “I’m going to bed. Alone.”

That last is said forcefully, meaningfully, like it’s some form of human words-within-words communication. Its nuances are lost on Castiel, but he does have the intuition that Dean is going to pointedly go to bed alone for the foreseeable future. Still, he is just thankful he’s not been thrown out of the bunker (again.) A strange forbearance on Dean’s part, but one Castiel decides not to question. He still has a home, he can still sit in Dean’s light from time to time, even if, right this moment, he doesn’t feel like he deserves it.

\---

 

Next chapter : Boss Level

In which the Host realize the nephilim was just a warm up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Put down the pitchforks, Cas-fans. I love our trenchcoated angel too, but he does tend to be a bit of a hard-liner at times, even in the latter seasons. He did execute Akobel in the past, he did try to kill Jesse, he did pinch the angel tablets because he didn’t even trust Dean with them, he did murder a nephilim who just wanted to be left alone, and he’s the same angel who ‘does what has to be done’ when it comes to Donatello in canon just last season. In addition, in this fic, he’s not met Jack or Kelly Kline to temper his views on the subject of nephilim. Now, would he really have done it if he’d gotten there first, or is Dean correct and he’d have flinched and tried to find an alternative? I’ll leave it open to your interpretation. 
> 
> Dean himself isn’t as sure as he’d like, but he’s damn sure of one thing: he’s not letting Cas anywhere near his kid. _Ever_. 
> 
> See you next week ~~


	13. Boss Level

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Host realize the nephilim was just a warm up.

**Less than a month ago, Castiel is still on thin ice in the bunker and has decided to go out looking for Metatron to ease the tension.**

Hannah has requested his physical presence this time. This can’t be good.

Castiel walks through the playground, nodding at Syrra and Eliezer on guard duty. They nod back, expressions grim; their scrutiny of the quiet neighborhood around them is sharp and somehow ominous.

Hannah is waiting for him near the seesaws, standing with her arms crossed, staring out across the city visible through the treeline around the park.

“What is it? Your last rogue?”

Hannah stares at him blankly for a split second, then frowns. “No. That’s been resolved. In the end, she surrendered herself.”

“She did?” Castiel is as startled as he is relieved.

“Yes. She had terms, ideas, things she wants done differently, but once we agreed- no matter.” Hannah turns fully towards him. “We have a serious problem.”

Castiel goes cold to the bottom of his being. “Another nephilim?” 

“That would have been considerably better,” Hannah says bitterly. “The Watchers in Heaven have found something. For months now, they have been feeling increasingly uneasy. It wasn't clear before, with the nephilim and other angels on earth, but now that the static of their presence has cleared, the Watchers are sure. They’ve analyzed the traces of what happened last year - it’s knell still echoes among the farthest corners of the stars. They recognize the stench of what is growing down on earth, however faint and hidden it may be.”

“Well?”

“It is a cambion.”

Easily the last thing Castiel expected. “A _cambion?_...Jesse Turner? Has he resurfaced?”

“No. That one is still in another plane, as far as we can determine, and he has closed the door. We do not think he can return even if he would wish it. This one is new.” 

“But that’s impossible.”

“We’re sure!” says Hannah a bit too loudly. Castiel is beginning to know his fellow angels in their present state of self-rule. This is a “we’re actually only fairly sure, but we’re so scared without Daddy to tell us what to do, that we’re going to move heaven and earth even if we’re not 100% certain” type of sure. 

“It takes a great amount of power to conceive a Cambion,” Castiel reminds her. “Azazel was involved last time, but he’s dead. Nobody has heard of any of the other princes for millennia. Crowley doesn’t have this amount of power. Who else could be involved?”

“We _believe_ the princes are dead, but that may be idle hope. One of them must be behind this-”

“If there even is a cambion around.” What would be the point of creating the next great leader of Lucifer’s armies when Lucifer is off the board, his generals dead, his armies beaten back and under the control of an overblown salesman?

“There is,” says Hannah mulishly.

“If there is-”

“Then we are counting on you, Castiel.”

Castiel’s objection derails into a confused: “-what?”

“You know what to do.”

Know what to- “Yes, because that worked out very well for me with the Turner child. I wonder if it will atomize me cleanly this time or simply turn me into a toy again.”

“That is why you need to find it now. Before it gets that strong.”

Castiel scowls. “Until it’s strong, we won’t find it, they hide too well - _if_ there is even a cambion out there. We only found Jesse when the Winchesters stumbled onto him by accident - and he was already coming into his powers then, he beat me with a thought.”

“They didn’t find him entirely by accident, they were pursuing that hunting career they’re so fond of.” 

There is a strong hint in her words. Castiel does not deign to pick it up.

They stare at each other for a few seconds and then Hannah’s lips tighten. When she speaks, it’s as the Host’s spokesangel. It is an order, each syllable pregnant with the consequences of disobedience for both Castiel and the Winchesters. “You will tell them to look into this. Then shadow them closely. How much information you give them is up to you, but considering what happened last time, with the Turner creature, I would avoid telling them this demonspawn is only a year old.” 

Castiel’s eyes flicker shut. But he can still see a tiny body in a burning car. 

Hannah’s voice is like a dentist’s drill through his thoughts. “We’re counting on you, Castiel. Remember, you are our agent here on earth, and we are too few left as it is - thanks in part to your mistakes. We are putting all our energy into keeping Heaven up and running, protecting our charges, and guarding the borders against worst things than-”

“I _know.”_

Hannah marches off in the direction of the portal without another word. Castiel stares at the seesaws.

“I know…”

 

\---

 

Castiel runs through so many stoplights on the way back to the bunker, it’s inevitable that a human in a uniform should stop him. He can’t pretend to care about the conversation that follows, and it goes downhill fast. Castiel contemplates following the man, since a night in a cell might provide him the distraction-free time he needs to get to grips with this new mission, but in the end he puts the human and his colleague to sleep, and erases their memory of the attempted arrest of a celestial being. He drives off. Stops a block down the road as he remembers what Dean has told him repeatedly about ‘dash cams’. He drives back and fries the entire patrol car’s electrical systems for good measure. Then, staring fixedly at the road, he continues his route to Lebanon, trying to pay a little more attention to human traffic laws.

Every one of his thoughts comes with a mighty big _IF there really is a cambion_ bolted on, to the point where Castiel decides to simply put it as a perpetual footnote. Hopefully the celestial Watchers and Recorders of the Host are just being a little over sensitive and nervous, and there is nothing more dangerous running around than a particularly bratty demon. But Castiel has to make his plans according to the worst-case scenario, because he cannot afford to ignore the possibility, however tenuous. A cambion in the Host’s current state of weakness would be catastrophic once it has grown old enough to come into its powers.

So how is he going to find it before that happens?

He wrestles with the notion of telling his friends. They’d be able to help him find the creature. But then what? Castiel, stopped at a stoplight this time, lets his forehead sink against the steering wheel as he remembers the strain between them… But in this instance, there really is no doubt about the appropriate course of action. This creature cannot be allowed to grow up. They’d lucked out tremendously with Jesse’s temperament, surely the odds are against them if a second cambion shows up. Especially if the child is being raised by demons, as Jesse should have been originally. 

Demons…

A thought winds its way through Castiel’s mind.

The chug-chug-chug of the gas pumping sounds like his thoughts right now. A thought becomes an idea. It is weighed and measured and added to until it becomes a plan. 

“It’s a place to start.”

“Sorry? Wazzat?” the very young woman at the Gas n’ Sip counter asks, not even faintly curious.

“I have an idea of where to begin,” Castiel explains, putting down his thirty three dollars and ten cents on the counter.

“Oh. Good,” she says vapidly, sweeping up his change. 

 

\---

 

Sam looks alarmed. “Demons?” 

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Now that you mention it…” The hunter sweeps up his laptop and clicks through information and emails at top speed. “You know, I think Hannah may be right. There have been demon signs here and there, more than usual… it’s subtle, but if Heaven’s picked up on something -” Sam’s face goes dark as he remembers that the Winchesters and Heaven are currently on the out. For a moment dangling like a sword on a thread, he almost looks ready to refuse to help out of principle, but then he focuses on his screen and presumably remembers who the greater evil is. “Hmm. They don’t know what the demons are planning?”

“They have speculation, but I don’t think they’re correct, personally,” Castiel says quite honestly. “I don’t want to influence you with their ideas. I understand if you don’t want to help us, but could you at least point me in the right direction… maybe keep an eye on any further signs?”

“Oh, _demons_ I have no problem hunting,” Sam says pointedly to the poor angel caught in the middle of a disagreement between his friends and his family.

Even if nothing is going on, keeping an eye on hell is not wasted, Castiel concludes philosophically.

He will not burden the Winchesters with further information. This is not a decision they are capable of making, The nephilim is something Castiel still isn’t entirely sure about, but a cambion? He had no problem terminating that threat to humanity. 

 

\---

 

Sam does some research. His conclusions make him scowl and call his brother.

Castiel hasn’t seen Dean in over three days. When they’re together, their relationship is different. Tense, in ways Castiel isn’t sure he can map. They’re not having sex anymore - Castiel had been right about that - but Dean still talks to him, either in person or on the phone every night. When he’s at the bunker, and Sam is the one watching Rowena, Dean still allows Castiel to sit in his presence and watch the beautiful light spilling from his soul. Dean doesn’t actually seem angry anymore, if he ever was. He’s… Castiel isn’t sure. He does not understand the exact nature of this distance between them. It’s probably beyond his abilities and his limited grasp of humanity to understand, he can only accept it. 

“Damn. Demons getting uppity. That’s all we need,” says Dean over the phone’s speaker, sounding harassed.

Sam glances up from the laptop screen to fix a hard stare on the cell phone on the oak table between him and Castiel. “Dean, I think there really is something weird going on. You know that means we’re going to have to call Crowley.”

“Dude, no!”

“I don’t like it either, but what better source to-”

“If there’s demons getting randy, he’s probably behind it!”

“Then we tell him to cut it out. Hey…” Sam cocks his head to one side. “Does he know you no longer have the Mark?” 

“...No, don’t think so. It’s not like I sent him a celebratory email or anything.”

Sam nods. “Then we have leverage. He didn’t want you going dark side any more than me or Cas did, since you’d have been after him like a flash the minute you got your black eyes back. If I frame it right... ” 

“Poke him with that and hope it loosens his tongue…? Might work.”

“Obviously that means it’s me and Cas who’ll talk to him.”

“Fuck... Okay. Be careful, both of you.”

“Of course.”

“Call me the second it’s done.”

“Sure-”

“Don’t agree to anything he says. _Anything._ Run everything that was said past me, even Hello.”

“Yeah-”

“And whatever you do-”

Sam leans over, hits the call hang-up button and turns off his cell. Then he reaches over the table into Castiel’s coat, pulls out the startled angel’s phone, and shuts it off too just as it starts to ring.

“C’mon, Cas. Let’s go talk to the King of Hell.”

 

\---

 

The summoning ritual fails. Twice. As the human and the angel scratch their heads and look at each other, wondering what to try next, there’s a “Hoi!” from the library.

They find Crowley ensconced in a comfy leather chair, sipping a scotch. “You don’t mind, I chose to avoid the bondage special this time,” the King of Hell sneers. “You never call, you never write- just having you summon me up for handcuffs and naughty talk makes me feel like a bit of a slapper. So, what have you been getting up to, Moose?”

Even Castiel can tell that the bored, flip tone is a mask, and Crowley is watching them very carefully.

“Still working on removing the Mark of Cain,” Sam lies, putting together the impeccable semblance of a man getting to the end of his rope. “Still no leads on your end?”

“You think I have time to worry about Squirrel?” Crowley snorts, looking around through his lashes. “Um, where is the little firebrand, anyway?”

“Elsewhere. He wouldn’t approve of me contacting you. For some strange reason, he wants to-... what was it he said, Cas? He wanted to rip out Crowley’s guts and spread them around Kansas?”

Castiel nods succinctly.

“Such a drama queen,” Crowley puffs, visibly relaxing at the news that Dean is not around. 

“Yeah, but Crowley…” Sam sighs, weary, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We really need to sort out the Mark and we don’t need distractions. Whatever it is you’re doing, quit it. I thought we had some kind of unspoken truce going. You’d rather not have Dean revert either, he’ll be after the very instant he wants the First Blade back. And since he’ll cap me first, I won’t be around to stop him this time. You really want that? He gets hold of you, he’ll make Abaddon's takeover look like a girl scout cookie sale.”

Halfway through his speech, Crowley’s eyebrows had twitched upwards, but he doesn’t interrupt until Sam finishes his diatribe.

“If you thought we had a truce, then more fool you, but you have me at a disadvantage, big boy. For once. What is it you think I’m doing?”

Castiel watches him closely, but he’s got little chance at figuring out if the king of the crossroads is lying or not. Reading demons has never been an angel’s strong suit.

Sam is looking at Crowley minutely, and he doesn’t seem sure either. 

“Don’t mess with me, Crowley. Demon signs are up across the board.” Had Crowley’s eyes narrowed slightly? What does that mean? “I don’t need the distraction right now, but I am not going to stand by and let you get up to your usual fucking around, either. And neither will Dean. And if you think it’s just us that you need to worry about, think again. Heaven’s picked up on it to. And they have even less in the way of patience than I do.”

Crowley’s gaze flickers to Castiel and his mouth pinches. He’s silent for a spell, his drink swirling slowly around his glass.

“Hmm. Well, if you and feathers here wish to plug any of these demons you've found, feel free, you won’t be hurting my feelings.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your- what does that mean? Are you claiming you’re not up to something?”

“I’m always up to something, Samantha, it’s part of my charm.”

Sam snorts rudely.

“But in this instance…” The drink sways. Crowley takes a sip, relaxes back in the leather chair and looks them over carefully. “In this very particular instance, I am not to blame. You see, there’s been some unrest down below. A faction of the Pit has been getting ornery. Enough to ignore the very clear directives I put in place to restrict any Tom, Dick and Harry to come up on earth and muck up my deals. They’re breaking rank and bribing guards and reapers to let them out. Those would be the ones you’re talking about.” 

“You expect us to believe that?” 

“Am I not the soul of honesty?”

“Seriously, Crowley-”

“I am cleaning my own house, Moose,” says Crowley, standing up. His glass hits the side table with a definitive click. “These misguided idiots are not a problem. The only reason they’re putting up a fuss is due to some mystical mumbo-jumbo that has gotten the older demons in a tizzy, about spheres moving and stars shaking. Appallingly boring stuff. They think a new leader is about to rise and take over from yours truly. That’s why they have the gonads to start stirring.”

“A leader?” Castiel blurts out, ignoring Sam’s warning glance. “Who?”

The clever eyes narrow, scrutinize him. “No clue at present. Somebody powerful, is what they believe, who could take over hell. I thought it was Squirrel at one point, but they seem uninterested in him -”

At Castiel’s side, so faint only an angel could hear, a puff of relief from Sam. Naturally. Dean would have made a very good candidate before the Mark came off, it is fortunate he is not in the demons’ crosshairs. 

“- so I am not sure who they have in mind. Or why they’re coming to earth and rooting around. If you find out more, then remember I have a vested interest. You have my number - and I do mean, use a cell phone next time, princess. I know you love to see me in my own tender flesh, but we are in the 21st century. Use the technology available.” 

“You really have no idea?”

“I have many ideas,” says Crowley in a hard, dangerous voice. “And I am working my way through them, one by bloody one, and I will continue to do so until Hell calms down or I leave a trail of bodies in my wake. Now if you’ll excuse me-” And the library is empty of any trace of demonic presence, bar a faint waft of sulfur and expensive cologne. 

“Not as much skinny as I’d hoped, but I’m favoring the odds Crowley isn’t behind this demonic incursion. I think he sees this as a threat and he’s trying to cap whoever’s responsible.” Sam’s lips are tight, eyes dark with concern. 

Whoever is rallying demons. A powerful figure. Possibly related to last year’s disturbance. But somebody who has not yet openly moved against Crowley, perhaps because he or she is still too weak. Or too young… but what did Crowley mean when he said the rogue demons are coming to earth and rooting around? Come to think of it, why would demons be scattered about on earth in various places rather than in one defensive area protecting-... whoever? 

There could be several explanations… but the possibility there’s a cambion out there is not excluded, to Castiel's consternation. They need to find these rogue elements out of hell and ask them some serious questions. 

 

\--- 

 

**Three weeks ago, and it’s slow going for the hunters.**

For days they crisscross the country, following the trail of demon signs and possessed mortals, but they find little more than bodies. Now they know what they’re looking for, it’s easy to tell the difference between Crowley’s lot and these rebels. Crowley’s demonic sales team only shows up at crossroads and witches’ sabbaths for their usual sordid deals. These other demons don’t follow any of Crowley’s strictures: they break out of the Pit and then move fast. They take over a vessel and disappear, riding their host hard and murdering any who try to stop them. But when they take off, it’s never in any consistent direction, as far as the hunters’ painstaking investigation show. What the demons are doing on earth is far from clear.

They finally catch one of the creatures and manage to trap it in a building near Des Moines, in a storage space attached to the local DMV. For once it’s not a conveniently abandoned warehouse - strange how many of those there are around - but Sam quickly empties the place with the help of a badge and the words Bomb Threat. Nobody stops to question why someone would wish to blow up a DMV; soon the hunters have the whole building to themselves while a lot of state employees have an extended lunch break.

In the surprisingly short time it takes for the place to empty, Castiel can’t think of a good reason to get rid of Sam while he interrogates the demon by himself. He suggests Sam walk out with the last DMV employees just to be sure they stay out, and to hold any other law enforcement agents at bay, but Sam immediately turns around and suggests Castiel do that and let him ‘crack’ the demon by himself. They’re still arguing about who should leave when the demon in the devil trap starts to rant and rave, having gotten tired of waiting. 

As it turns out, the hellspawn doesn’t know anything anyway. The crazed demon quotes scriptures, apocrypha, blasphemous prophecies about ‘a sun that will rise in the north!’ that will lead the chosen of the Pit to rule all of Hell, and then Earth and Heaven as well. But when pressed - painfully, with holy water - it turns out he doesn’t know anything definite, he’s just quoting the party line, as Sam puts disgustedly after performing the exorcism. Crowley is on the lookout for returning minions and will dole out punishment better than an angel or human can.

“Th-th-they’re looking for someone,” the poor shaken victim confirms once he can talk. “That’s all I got f- f- from _him_. They’re looking for signs - animals born wrong, unexplained fires, priests dying violently, miscarriages-”

“Demon signs,” Sam mutters, then scowls, “or possibly too many late-night viewings of The Omen. What are these signs supposed to show them?”

“A leader- lord help us, I think it’s the antichrist! The end of days! They felt him step foot on the earth last year and now they’re looking for him to- to- serve and protect him until he can- can- ... I- I- why did this happen to me?! I never hurt anyone! I sell insurance! I go to church every single sunday s-s-since-”

“That doesn’t help,” Castiel says, mind spinning over what they’ve learned. “God is gone, not that he was ever in your church to begin with. Your Christ The Lamb Pentecostal congregation is too small-minded and clannish.”

The insurance salesman gapes for three solid seconds, before he huffs and puffs impressively and shakes his church-going fist at Castiel: “Heathen! How-how did you know- who the hell do you think you are?!”

“You don’t want him to answer that,” Sam says with a toothy grin. “I suggest you run out the back, and if anyone asks you anything about any of this later, just tell them you made a prank call because you hate the DMV, and take whatever fine they slap you with. Don’t tell anyone the truth unless you want to end up in jail or committed. C’mon, Cas, I don’t think we’ll learn much more here.”

 

\---

 

“So, uh, Heaven really has no clue? No more than you told us?” Sam probes as they drive away from Des Moines.

He hates to lie, but… “No. They did feel the same shift in the spheres that the demons seem to find portentous. And they are interested in what the demons are doing, naturally. Crowley is a known quantity-”

“And not that scary.”

“A new leader, however, could be a serious problem for heaven, moreso for earth. It sounds like a threat we need to eradicate before it becomes too great,” Castiel says carefully, testing the waters.

Sam is silent, staring at the traffic up ahead, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Sam?”

“Huh?! Uh, yeah. Sure. Hey, mind if we stop here? Gotta make a phone call.”

Not the ringing endorsement Castiel had hoped for. He wishes he could do this without Sam, but it’s a fact that the hunter is better than he is at hunting down demon-possessed humans, and he can get closer to them more easily as well. Angels tend to stand out. Without Sam, Castiel isn’t sure he’d be able to track the problem as effectively, but he worries, each time they narrow down on their quarry, that this demon will be the one to open his big mouth and confirm that they are searching for a cambion, a very young one. A small part of Castiel doesn’t want to hear it confirmed; the greater part of Castiel _really_ doesn’t want to hear it confirmed to Sam, who will react the same way he had with Jesse Turner. 

Where is Sam, anyway…? How far did he go to make that phone call? Castiel squints and spots his friend over a block away near a gas station, turning around and around in its parking lot and talking intently on the phone while gesturing with his free hand. He seems tense, even at that distance. Castiel wonders why Sam had to go so far, but that’s explained when Sam glances back at the car, and then heads to the restroom, still talking. 

Castiel doesn’t want to discuss his suspicions, he doesn’t want an even greater rift between himself and his friends. But he does need to find this leader and ascertain what it is, and he’ll be more efficient with Sam than without. As for the footnote in Castiel’s mind, it’s become _IF there is a cambion out there, then I need to find it and kill it._

 

\---

Next chapter: The Mysterious Mr Smith

In which Castiel isn’t getting as far as he’d like in locating the source of the trouble - strange, it’s almost as if someone who knows him well is working against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly to the end of our countdown. Everybody excited?


	14. The Mysterious Mr. Smith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel isn’t getting as far as he’d like in locating the source of the trouble - strange, it’s almost as if someone who knows him well is working against him.

**Two week ago now, and Castiel’s angelic patience is being tested.**

Days go by after dealing with that possessed pentecostal, and instead of getting nearer to his prey, Castiel feels like he’s flying backwards. 

Each and every time he and Sam close in on a new demon, they only find a human, either dead or in a hospital raving about black eyes and rotten eggs. At first Castiel thinks the demons are getting slippery, but then he overhears a few of the victims mention they’d been saved by someone. A ‘Mr Smith’, he apparently called himself, from what the victims babble to their nurses, police detectives or psychiatrist. 

“Must be another hunter,” Sam says airily, stirring dressing into his salad.

Castiel leans over the diner table intently. “Can you ask around your network, find out who it is?”

“Why?”

Why? Isn’t it obvious? “He’s exorcising our leads. We’re not getting any closer to the leaders of this rebel faction, the ones who know what’s actually going on.”

“Damn, you’re right,” Sam says, and munches thoughtfully on some lettuce. “Okay, let me get on the horn to the other hunters I know,” he eventually adds. “We’ll put out the word, get hold of this Smith and hopefully work with him, hm?”

“Yes.”

But a week later, the elusive Mr Smith hasn’t been found. They can only dog his trail at a distance, following from one of his exploits to the next, putting together the picture of a formidable hunter who is always three steps ahead of them. 

Though they’re no longer tussling with demons, Sam is increasingly tired and worn, and he’s behaving erratically. His tension ratchets whenever they speak to a witness or an ex-possessed human. He is oddly strained when Castiel speculates about ‘Mr Smith’. He spends a lot of time researching things on his computer and shutting it abruptly when Castiel comes into the room. He’s oddly forgetful about certain details, and at one point he drives them halfway to Salina before Castiel catches the mistake and gets them heading back towards Colorado Springs.

When Castiel finds a powder-blue pacifier stuck at the very bottom of Sam’s hunting bag full of deadly weapons, he starts seriously worrying about his human friend's mental health. 

 

\---

 

Sam’s cell phone makes a muted beep as the call disconnects.

“Yeah, got it confirmed by this hunter, Kelly Branson. He found the victim in Albuquerque just now, off in the industrial zone near the airport. The demon got sent back to where it belongs right before Kelly got there, but at least the human survived, he’s driving her to the hospital right this minute. Good job, mister Smith, right?” Sam gives Castiel a sunny smile, only slightly marred by exhaustion. It crumbles in stages when Castiel stares stonily back.

“Well I thought it was good news. One less demon,” Sam mumbles, turning back to his open laptop and email. 

Castiel turns on his heels, walks out of Sam’s motel room and into the parking lot where he places a call to Dean. This isn’t their routine; Dean talks to him on the phone without fail every night, but he’s always the one to initiate the call. This makes sense, as he’s the one who needs to eat, sleep and use the facilities, and other human frailties that Castiel feels no impulse to needlessly interrupt. But this is important.

“Cas?! What’s wrong!”

“Dean, I-... where are you?” 

“...uh… out in Baby, doing some shopping. Rowena needed some, uh, some more booze. She sure puts down those fruity drinks, just like her boy. What’s up?”

Castiel frowns distractedly at the motel’s Vacancy sign. For months now he’s talked with Dean over the phone, he’s grown used to the auditory background over the line. Dean usually calls him outside, with the sound of crickets or the whine of the wind, depending on the season. Wherever he and Charlie have stashed Rowena is somewhat isolated, remote; the best place to sequester a powerful witch. The most Castiel has ever heard over the line was the hum of electric wires, the growl of a car motor from an infrequently used road nearby, and the distant cry of a baby, presumably some neighbor’s child. 

What Castiel heard when Dean picked up just now was the definite subharmonics of a plane flying overhead at a take-off or landing altitude, and his lover’s voice is now rocked by the passing of frequent vehicles.

“...I have some concerns about Sam. He’s told you about this hunter named Smith?”

“Yeah, the bastard burning all your leads. Bit of a bitch, but what can you do? We don’t have exclusive hunting rights on demons - hah, that’s one license I wouldn’t pay for at any rate. What’s up with Sammy?”

“...He’s tired, I think this fruitless hunt is frustrating him,” Castiel says slowly.

“Yeah-”

“You sound tired too.” This question is more pointed.

“Oh, had a late night, movie marathon. Netflix should come with a warning label. Look, is that all you called for? Sam’s tough, he’ll be fine. I was driving, I’m on a shoulder here and some drunk hillbilly is gonna rear-end my car if I don’t get off of it. We can talk more tonight.”

Castiel hears himself respond to Dean’s goodbyes from a long distance. He’s deep inside his own mind, and it is spinning rapidly.

...Castiel has a world of faith in his friends, in Dean in particular. It is an angel’s faith, pure and unwavering. 

But years of travail on Earth and his few months of being mortal have lined that beautiful faith with a faint edge of a very human brand of scepticism.

_Dean and Sam are good friends, forthright, honest men, they wouldn't lie to me..._

_...Except with the best of intentions, when they take onto themselves a danger they want to protect others from._

There is only one thing that can prove stronger than Castiel’s faith in his lover, and that is his concern for him. And it is now, perhaps belatedly, rearing its head.

His faith tries to battle it down, the same way the angel Castiel had once battled down doubt in his Father’s plans (but it hadn’t _been_ his father’s plans, he’d been, as Dean had put it, a patsy, he’d been right to question-) But- but surely the blasphemous idea now pervading his mind like a dark stain cannot possibly be correct. No, it can’t be. Dean is where he always is, watching the witch. His lover has kept them apart for months because it was so important to crack the Mark, unwind all its magic, and keep an eye on Rowena. Why would he fail in that last duty now?

Rowena.

_Rowena._

His suspicion seizes on that name and a thread of light starts to winds its way through the darkness. It ties together several nebulous ideas. Something, a great evil, is out there, maybe a cambion, maybe not. Also out there is a witch powerful enough to remove a curse of the magnitude of the Mark of Cain. That witch has a serious beef with the king of hell. This new great evil is being set up as a replacement for said king of hell. And Dean… where would he fit into this…? Did… did he and Sam find out months ago about this new evil, possibly a cambion - oh dear, a _young_ cambion? Have they stumbled upon the secret of its existence during their close surveillance of Rowena? Have they actually _found_ this creature? And are not telling him because they know he’ll be faced with the same grim duty as last time? Are they protecting the child? Or maybe Castiel? Or both?

It’s all just supposition at this juncture, but if it’s true… that is so dangerous. The demons will not stop searching. It’s already amazing that those demonic idiots have apparently lost their brand new antichrist _again_ \- after Jesse’s mother hid her offspring, you’d think they’d try to be more careful. But even if it’s not in their grasp right this minute, this child will be powerful, they are bound to find it.

“...Cas?”

“Yes, Sam.” Castiel turns slowly from his contemplation of the parking lot and the highway beyond. His phone is still in his hand. He remembers to slip it in his pocket. 

The words are out of Castiel’s mouth, put there by Doubt before Faith can protest. “We really need to find out what these demons are up to, and we can’t afford to constantly lose ground to this Smith. I think we need to split up. We’ll get more done that way. Ask Jodie for assistance-”

“What?! Uh, no, that’s-”

“-or some other hunter can help you-”

“No, no, we’re better off together-”

Castiel lets his friend’s counterargument run around him like a noose, merely confirming what Castiel suspected. 

This is why Sam’s been so tired lately. It’s not the demon chase that’s exhausting him. It’s keeping a watch on Castiel, making sure to follow clues while obfuscating them from the angel.

Before the numbness of shock can fully morph into pain, the next blow comes, even worse than the first. Because now Mr Smith goes from being an obstacle to another piece of the puzzle, and if Castiel still prayed, he’d be praying now with all his might that Mr Smith is just another hunter from the network Sam has been keeping abreast of their search. He hopes - he really hopes - oh, he’s ready to get down on his knees and pray to an empty sky that Mr Smith is not sitting on the shoulder of a highway near the Albuquerque airport right this minutes, staring at his phone with a concerned look in his green eyes. 

Dean…

There are many facets to this possibility and every one of them cuts him like a knife, but it’s a pain he’s known before and it’s a pain he will probably know again. He loves Dean, he loves him, he loves him, he _loves_ him, and Dean loves him in return; they’re family, they work together and fight back to back, they saved the earth together. But at the end of the day, as heart-wrenching as it is, they are two different species, and their motivations don’t always align. It’s inevitable. Some things they just cannot see the same way. This past year of grueling service to the Host has taught Castiel his duty once more, the cruel demands of it, the acceptance of it that only an angel can muster. He will have to do his duty now. And his friends will have to do their muddled human best to do what they think is right. And if this causes them to clash once again, then that is inevitable and not the first time that’s happened, but they will hopefully sort themselves out at the end of it as they have before. But that only applies if - and that takes precedence over everything, really - _if_ Mr Smith survives his bout of rapid-fire solo demon hunting (of all the foolish- he doesn’t even have Sam with him!)

This has to end now.

But confronting the Winchesters about it won’t lead anywhere fruitful, he fears. Even his fully riled suspicions concur that his friends would not keep him out of this unless they had what they believe are very good reasons, and he doubts he’ll be able to argue them out of it, not unless he’s willing to lie to their faces and promise to leave the cambion unharmed. He might have to do that in the end - and hope they believe him, which is another matter - but he doesn’t want to put more of _them_ , of their trust, of their family, at risk than he absolutely needs to. 

He’s going to have to do something he hates even more than this situation, then, but it’s the only way he can see to break it open right now.

“Very well, we’ll stick together,” Castiel says - his thoughts flying at the speed of light, Sam is only halfway through reason number three why they should not split up. “But what we’re doing here isn’t getting us anywhere and it’s wearing you out. Let's go back to the bunker. We’ll try coordinating with your network again. See if we can reach out to this Mr Smith one more time.” And place a call to the King of Hell in the dead of night.

 

\---

 

**Yesterday. Castiel is ready to put his plan in motion.**

It’s nightfall by the time they make it back to the bunker. Home. It still feels like home, even though it’s now shot through with a tang of suspicion, lies and residual anger, and naturally Dean is not there. So, pretty much on par with his other home up in Heaven, then, Castiel reflects morosely. 

He’s put all of his meager skills of dissemblance into appearing normal, hiding the bleeding ache inside, his worry, his anger and his sadness, but Sam’s instincts are superb. He seems reluctant to leave Castiel alone for more than a minute as if afraid the angel might take flight the moment his eyes are off him. But human frailty is on Castiel's side. Once Sam keels over in exhaustion in the den’s deep couch, a nature documentary droning unheeded in the background, Castiel covers him with a blanket and proceeds with his plan. Rather than chance the summoning circle, he simply steps outside and places a phone call. It’s three in the mornings, but demons don’t sleep either, and he knows Crowley will pick up. The King of Hell has certainly been following their progress these last few weeks. 

“Ah, Castiel. Anything to report?” Crowley asks straight out. Castiel wonders if Crowley is aware how much he sounds like Hannah when he talks like that, and realizes that, yes, being Crowley, he probably knows it and relishes this subtle reminder that Castiel is at his beck and call. 

This is not a good time to poke a Seraph, but Castiel keeps his simmering feelings under wraps while he gives a curt no-progress report, and then listens silently to two solid minutes of Crowley mocking his and Sam’s hunting abilities.

“So fine, I guess I’m doing all the heavy lifting again. I’m putting the screws on the ones you did manage to send back to hell. Nothing so far. The other demons didn’t make it back, either this Smith bloke killed them with an angel blade or he boxed them in a puzzle or something equally arcane. No matter, I have my own means, which I dare say are considerably better than yours right now. If I do find anything, I’ll be magnanimous and drop you a line. Now, was there anything else, angel?”

“There is.”

A purring noise over the line, the sound a cunning cat makes when finally spying the mouse. “Aaaaah, are we finally getting to the point of this late-night call? The one you so obviously wanted to make with Moose out of the picture?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers bluntly.

“Fire away then.”

“Is this thing we’re hunting a young cambion?”

“That’s a reach,” says Crowley with zero amount of surprise in his tone. “Who told you that?”

“I see. If that is what we’re chasing, it will be nothing but a very young child.”

“If that _is_ what we’re chasing, then that’s the best time to do it,” Crowley concurrs smoothly, but there is an undertone in his voice that suggests he’s figured out Castiel has more to add and he’s now listening closely.

“This is a difficult situation for humans to handle. They don’t see into the higher dimensions like I do-”

“Like we both do, feathers.”

“-they can only see the material, the outer shell. I don’t think humans have the power or the will to do what needs to be done with this creature.”

“Right. You want to keep Moose and Squirrel out of the picture because you think they’ll choke once they see their target in a bib.”

“Yes. And if they are already in the picture, then I will work around them. No harm shall come to them, Crowley. Ever.”

“Oh, you know I have a soft spot for those two big-”

“You’re afraid that if you harm either one of them, Dean will fall into corruption again, take your kingdom and gut you. Don’t waste my time denying it, Sam is a light sleeper, I want to go back before he wakes up and decides to check on me.”

Crowley mutters something unhelpful, but he no longer objects.

“We should keep any other human who might be involved out of this,” Castiel adds.

“Who else might- oh, you think the beastie might have regular adoptive parents?”

“It's happened before. If that’s the case, the loss of the child will be hard for them, but-”

“Oh, we’d be doing them a favor. Wait till this kid goes full Damien on their nuts, they’ll be begging us to help.”

“Keep your demons out of this too, Crowley.”

“Castiel, I told you, _my_ demons obey their ruler, and I told them to let you blokes handle it-”

“I don’t believe you,” Castiel says bluntly. “Keep them away from this or they will perish. We are going to keep this very simple. All other demons and humans will stay out of this, I will handle it alone, and now, while it's young.”

“The ol’ slaughter-the-newborn plan. Herod would be proud of you. I like it. That about wraps it up?”

“Yes. By the way, do you know where your mother is these days?”

Crowley’s composure pops like a soap bubble. “Huh?! Why do you ask?”

“Something Sam said-”

Click, dead line.

The last two seconds of the call had been the entire point of it, the bits before it had just been what his friends called a ‘smoke-screen.’ Purpose hopefully accomplished, Castiel goes back to the library to blindly stare at a book as he waits. 

 

\---

 

It doesn't take long. Crowley has resources, is a capable witch in his own rights, and is Rowena's closest relative; now that he’s got incentive, he’ll find her. 

But unexpectedly, it's not Castiel's phone that rings four hours later, it's Sam's that goes off like an alarm in the early morning quiet.

Moved by instinct, Castiel gets to his feet and quickly approaches the den until he can clearly hear, through two walls and a door, Sam’s sleepy, “Crowley, this better be-”

Three seconds later, Castiel is pressed against the door to the tv room, ears pricked so he can hear both sides of the conversation. He needn’t have bothered; the way Crowley is shouting over the line, even a human could have eavesdropped. 

“-you thought you could hide this? Are you two apes _mental?!_ And you involved my _MOTHER?!”_

“Crowley, _shut up!_ ” Footsteps, Sam moving to the den’s en-suite bathroom. A click as he shuts the door, but Castiel is too close for that to hamper his senses. He can still clearly hear Crowley bellow.

“Shut up?! Shut up?! Do you have any idea what Squirrel has unleashed on this world?!”

“Stay the fuck out of this, Crowley!”

“Oh, if I only had that option! But if those rebels get a hold of that kid, I’m out of a job! And bloody well out of a life too! Probably out of a mother as well, but that’s the only silver lining I can see!”

“We got this!”

“You got absolutely sod all, you big oik! No, wait, that’s not true! You have everything! You have Mister Killer Angel hot on this kid’s trail when he’s not sleeping with Dean - who’s normal now, _thank you for telling me_ \- you got my mother playing nursemaid- and you got a demonic kidnapping squad on the way to your little beach house in Alma right this minute! You got so much it’s about to cave in on our-

“The demons know?! They know about Alma?!”

“My mother’s good - so’s the goddamn brat it seems - but somebody was bound to slip up sooner or later! And if not them, someone on my side probably-”

“Why didn’t you tell me right away?!” Sam shouts. “Wait- I’ll call back- “ A click, then the beep of a phone’s buttons being punched. “Dean?! Are you home yet? Shit! _Shit!_ How far are you?! Dean, you got to get to Alma _now_ -”

Castiel doesn’t wait to hear any more. Alma. That’s just down the road a ways. The cambion, Rowena and a mess of demons are going to soon end up in Alma, and Dean is heading there too.

It’s not the presence of any of the others that make Castiel break every speed limit known to man. 

If Dean tries to defend the creature….

If he’s caught in the crossfire...

If he…

No. It will not happen. They’ve only just found each other. They cannot lose each other now, especially with all this anger and mistrust between them- no, it cannot happen…

 

\---

 

**Twenty minutes ago.**

Alma is a medium sized town and Castiel still can't sense the cambion. But he simply drives around for five minutes, ignoring the horrible grinding sounds his abused car makes and the repeated phone calls from Sam, until he spots a couple of demons running hell bent for leather through the quiet suburban streets. He tails them, hoping they’ll lead him either straight to the cambion or to the other demons gathering in this town. 

Annoyingly enough, his plan derails when his leads are ambushed by a petite red-headed woman in a fancy black lace dress, stepping out of a nearby rear-lane. She looks battered and rabid, dark power rolling off of her in the higher spheres, and she annihilates Castiel’s clues with a curt gesture and a short incantation, turning the first demon into a human torch. The second one hurls himself aside to put out the fire before it kills him, then leaps to his feet.

Car idling half a block away, Castiel watches the magical battle that breaks out next to a white picket fence and a couple of ugly plastic flamingos. That has to be Rowena, there can only be one witch in town with that kind of power. But why is she fighting the demons looking for the cambion? He thought she’d be interested in the faction gunning for Crowley. Does she have plans for the creature that do not involve a revolution in hell? And an even better question, Castiel reflects as a burnt pink plastic wing goes scything over the hood of his car: who exactly in this scenario is he supposed to be siding with…? 

His thoughts are cut short by the familiar sound of a gunshot, the kind loaded with salt rounds. The tonalities are subtly different than when loaded with shot. He takes off in that direction, ignoring the battle behind him and the distant sound of sirens.

His car labors along a winding path skirting a lake, bordered by the occasional beach house, most of them boarded up and waiting for summer that’s just around the corner. In the far distance is a growing pillar of smoke that suggests one of these dwellings is on fire. He heads that way on instinct and thirty seconds later, he spots the Impala. It’s up on the curb, door and trunk flung open. Another car with a child seat in the back stands abandoned a few feet away where it’s been forced off the road and into a ditch. Several motorcycles and a pickup truck idle beyond it.

Another shot rings through the air. Castiel throws himself out of his car and rounds the truck. 

The fight is some three hundred feet away, at the very edge of the lake. A possessed human has just fallen to the ground, rolling in agony as the salt eats into his belly, burning the demon riding him. There are at least four more bodies on the mud and sand, gutted by the demon-killing knife still stuck in the ribs of one of them. 

A demon in the body of a tall, large beefy bald mortal in motorcycle leathers is wrestling Dean for the shotgun. Dean’s face and body are marred with blood, his jaw clenched in pain. He makes an abrupt move towards the demon, stepping into the creature’s pull on the gun. The second his opponent is off balance, Dean twists the shotgun between them at a slight angle and pulls the trigger, blasting another hellspawn who was leaping right at him. The creature staggers and howls, then smokes out. 

But the large demon holding the gun retaliates, jerking the weapon to one side, and pulling Dean straight into the path of one of his brethren. The second demon grabs Dean by the shoulder, the throat- Dean squirms but he loses his grip on the shotgun. The large demon rips it from him, hits him once, hard, in the sternum with the butt. Dean doubles over, choking, tries to right himself- the demon brings his right hand up, and a glove covered in metal spikes glints in the morning light. It comes down hard, first on Dean’s jaw, turning his knees to rubber in the second demon’s hold, and then it strikes a second time, scoring five parallel cuts down his torso all the way to his belt, vicious and deep enough to almost eviscerate him. The demon holding Dean’s arms steps up and savagely stomps down on Dean’s bent leg at the knee. The dull crack echoes through the empty beach. Dean’s cry stays behind his teeth; he’s still fighting, though the way his eyes are wide and glassy, it looks more like muscle memory and stubborn instinct than anything else.

The demon in front of Dean smiles like death and damnation as he lifts his gloved fists one more time-

At which point Castiel’s hand connects with the back of his bald head. The demon is burned out with an actinic flare and a good deal of protective rage. 

The demon holding Dean gapes over the sagging human’s shoulder, then looks around frantically - but the two other demons who’d been on the beach, advancing on a red-headed woman a little ways off, are dead already. It wasn't a strategic removal of potential reinforcements on Castiel’s part, they just happened to be standing between him and Dean.

The lone surviving demon gulps.

The next second the blade of Castiel’s dagger is buried in his throat.

The convulsing hellspawn drops Dean, who lands hard on his back with a ragged groan. But he’s alive, he’s alive. Castiel quickly looks around the beach, sees no other demons. Dean himself took care of most of them before the angel arrived, and thank their Father that Castiel was there to finish off the remainder. Now-

Dean shakes his head hard to clear it and looks up. 

And he blanches.

“C-Cas?!”

It’s the look on Dean’s face that arrests Castiel before he can reach down and heal him. Hardly the expression of a man happy to see his lover coming to the rescue. Dean looks like he’d rather have that demon dig out his entrails some more.

The red-headed woman Castiel barely noticed before is a little way off. It’s Charlie Bradbury (not her real name, but Castiel is polite and has agreed to call her that.) She’s staring at Castiel with much the same look on her face as Dean, and the angel blade with which she was holding the demons at bay earlier is now pointing at him.

And behind her…

This close and despite all camouflage, the creature roils with chaotic power, for all it is very young. It’s progenitor must truly have been a powerful demon.

No. It’s more than that. This essence permeating the Ether, this acrid tang of blood and burning flesh. It’s familiar. It’s a scent Castiel hasn’t encountered since-

He takes a step away from Dean. The hunter rolls over, surges to his feet- yells when his broken knee twists beneath him and compounds the injury. He hits the sand again, eyes glazing over with pain and the effects of concussion. Castiel flinches, but reins in his instinct to go help; Dean is badly injured, but his life is not in immediate danger and there is a much, much greater problem on this beach. 

Castiel can barely feel the ground beneath his feet as he walks towards it. 

The being his lover was battling to protect is maybe fourteen months old. It is male. Its eyes are a very familiar green. And on its chubby arm, beneath a blue t-shirt reading “Daddy’s Little Guy”, is the Mark of Cain.

“Who…”

Castiel clears his throat, but it still feels like someone is strangling him.

“Who is… how… “

“Cas-” Dean’s still on the ground, shaking with pain, holding on to consciousness through sheer savage willpower. “Cas, walk away. This is not for you, this is not- this is none of your business.”

Those words couldn't be more wrong...

The creature is crying and squirming. Charlie is holding it too tightly. The blade in her free hand catches the morning light as it trembles.

“Who is… the… parent of-...”

Angel senses tangle in the ether, stumble onto traces. Lineage. Clues. And past memories of oddities. 

The truth comes at him like a meteor. Like the sun going nova. Like a personal apocalypse.

 

\---

 

Next Chapter: Duty from on high 

In which our countdown hits zero at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, screams of agony are fuel for authors. See you next Saturday ^__^


	15. Duty From On High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our countdown hits zero at last.

**Right here. Right now. Dean's worst nightmare.**

Two weeks of grueling single-minded demon hunting woulda been a tough gig, once upon a time, but Dean’s been hardened in the fires of the apocalypse; hunting these wretched yahoos, even solo, is a spring break in Cancun next to going after Horsemen. No, what was really hard was leaving Robbie behind while Sam rode herd on Cas. At least he could leave Charlie in charge, Charlie, his rock, as well as Rowena, who had never found that angle she’d once looked for. Dean’s sure she’d been hatching plans to use the unborn cambion against Crowley at some point… and he knows those plans became moot the first time Robbie grinned that gummy grin at her. He trusts them both to watch his son, and it’s the only thing keeping him from losing his mind. 

He wishes this wasn’t necessary. It should be okay for him to forget all this shit, let Sam and Cas hunt down those demons while he relaxes in his recliner with his boy in his arms. 

Some dead Nephilim kid tells him otherwise.

He should have known something like this would happen one day. How hadn’t he known?! Especially when Heaven issued all those fucking kill orders and Cas started raking up haloes like it was going out of style. If they were that hacked off about angels and nephilim on Earth, a cambion can’t expect mercy, or even stay hidden forever. He should have seen this coming.

But Dean was so fucking happy… happier than he’s ever been before. Cas and Robbie- his life was so goddamn full. He had his son, he had his angel he’d been gone on for years, and his brother was alive and okay, and he had Charlie and Rowena to help and share all those awesome moments with him, and everything was just so _good-_ Over the months, that scarred ripped-up part of Dean’s heart he’d thought numb forever had risen from the ashes like a phoenix, glorious and bright, and ready to be cut to ribbons all over again when things went predictably south, as they always would for Dean Winchester.

He'd been stupid. And selfish. He was a selfish bastard and a horrible father - just like the old man, huh? At least John had spent his life avenging Mary. What was Dean doing? Nothing! Why the hell had he come back to the bunker after that nephilim and her mom died?! He should have grabbed his boy and headed south of the border, kept on driving until there was nothing but ocean ahead and no angel behind. 

...But he didn’t. Maybe it was common sense that objected, or maybe it was his selfishness, but it’s probably a fact that leaving Cas and disappearing wouldn’t have done all that much to protect Robbie in the long run, it’d have just made Cas angry and suspicious, and guarantee he’d come after Dean one way or another. The seraph’s too good a tracker now… And maybe, Dean’s feelings whispered in the dead of night, maybe if he mended fences with the guy he’s loved for years, if he and Cas could get past this latest breakdown in their relationship and build something good between them once again, maybe, just maybe Cas wouldn’t execute Dean’s son out of hand on the day the truth inevitably came out.

Right?

...Stupid. Stupid and selfish. 

So this right now? Cas staring down at Rob with his blade drawn?

This is all on Dean. 

And he will pay the price for his mistake every day for the rest of his life, with the grave of his son dug right into his soul.

 

\---

 

**Right here, right now, even though Castiel, still reeling, rather wishes it wasn’t.**

“Charlie, run,” Dean croaks behind him.

Charlie stares at Castiel like a rabbit at a wolf. She’s terrified, but she’s still standing between the slowly advancing angel and the creature, blade in hand. She doesn’t run. Either petrified or - more likely, knowing this woman’s intelligence - aware Castiel would be on her before she made it more than five feet. 

_”Cas-”_

Dean’s next words are cut short by a crackle of magic like a lightning strike. The light of the sun wavers and dims, and the muddy sand of the beach roils and shapes itself into strange, profane patterns.

“Do not take one more step towards them!” Rowena screams at his back.

Her mistake is giving Castiel a warning. Maybe she hopes he’ll be reasonable - or possibly intimidated, because the level of protectiveness in her voice rivals the fiercest she-wolf. He still has no idea which side she's on, but it's obvious she’s ready to fight and kill... it's equally obvious, though, that she’s never fought one of his kind before. Castiel is not going to let her gain any experience in the matter. He in no way underestimates this woman’s magic. And maybe he can’t fly, but he can still move pretty fast.

A blast of dark power singes his hair and a broken wing, but Rowena doesn’t have time to do anything else before he reaches her and touches her forehead. 

The command to sleep bounces off her psyche rather spectacularly, and she’s ripping a hex bag out of her pocket the next second, so Castiel has no time to be subtle or polite. He bypasses her mind and her arcane shields, ordering every nerve in her body to seize. Rowena topples over like a plank of wood and hits the sand of the beach with a thud. 

“Rowena!” Charlie calls out in a panic. Off to the side, Dean gasps, a ragged horrified noise.

Castiel turns swiftly and holds up his unarmed hand, palm out. “Charlie, wait, don’t-”

But she doesn’t listen. She thrusts the creature behind her and charges right at Castiel, angel blade swinging. The strike is quite good, he can almost feel Dean’s lessons and guiding hand behind it. It slices his palm, drops of blood and light spilling out. It might have been considerably worse, but she's just trying to get him away from the creature and Rowena, there’s no killing intent behind the blow. Yet. Dangerous nonetheless. On the second swing, Castiel catches her wrist with the blade, shakes the weapon out of her hand, and touches her forehead. This time the order to sleep works like it’s supposed to, and she slumps into his arms. He lowers her down gently to the sand. 

In the breathless silence that follows, the small creature stands alone, caught between the lake’s edge and the angel. 

“No-” Dean is scrabbling, hand covered in his own blood, frantically trying to draw banishing sigils on the sand; a hopeless endeavor. He’d be able to use his skin as a canvas if the gory mess over his chest and arms didn’t make that impossible. 

“Cas-” Dean looks up from his second frantic attempt, his fingers still tracing in vain. “Cas- don’t- _Rob! No!”_

The creature stares at the prone ruined bodies all around him, gives the fallen Charlie a teary look, and, sobbing, takes unsteady steps straight towards her. The cambion freezes at Dean's shout, and makes a chirping burble of fear. It totters and falls to its hands and knees in the sand, then stands up again. It stares at its progenitor, but Dean’s state - gasping, frantic, face a mask of blood and bruises - makes him unrecognizable and upsetting, and so the creature directs unsteady steps towards the only adult left standing, an instinctive search for protection.

“Rob- no-” Dean tries to stand, loses his balance. He flops over in the sand, getting it into his injuries as he starts to crawl, trailing his broken leg behind him.

Castiel sees the realization in his eyes, the despair, as the human realizes he can’t reach them in time. 

“Cas.” The words drag out, heavy as chains. “Cas. Don’t. You might think it's your duty-”

“I _know_ it's my duty.” Castiel is surprised by how mildly the words come out, because the storm of growing realization raging through his mind and heart is far from mild, far, far from it. It’s a cyclone ripping up everything he thought he knew about his past year with Dean, the present, their future, turning all of it on its head. “We’ve been warned about this creature’s existence. Its power has already sent ripples through the Ether.” 

“I don’t care what might happen! I don’t care what he might become! Cas, I swear to god, you hurt my son, I will kill you!”

Castiel glances from Dean to the small entity a few feet away from him. “I expect no less.” 

Dean chokes. “Cas- Cas - God, I _love_ you but I mean it! Please- _please don’t hurt him please!”_ The words of panic rush, a rising wave. The cambion has toddled through sand and reached the angel, fastening hands on the edges of his trenchcoat for balance and looking at Dean with frightened eyes full of tears. 

...His blade is in his right hand. That’s right, demons, there’d been demons involved at some point; he killed a few, and the rest are scattered all around, some of them in bits. The air reeks of sulfur, smoke and the copper tang of blood. The weapon is heavy in Castiel’s fingers, it drags him back to the here and now like an anchor. The beach, the lake, the sky above, the bodies, Dean desperately pleading at a distance, the being of roiling chaos clutching at his hem, all come back into focus. It feels like the whole universe is looking down upon the seraph Castiel, hinging on the next thing he’s going to do as he leans forward and scoops up the small being with his spare hand.

Well now, Dean’s in his right to expect the worst, since it does seem to happen to him so very regularly, but if the rest of creation is waiting for Castiel to perform an angel’s duty… then it can wait a very long time. Castiel awkwardly fumbles his blade back into his coat with one hand, then shushes the scared child, letting the small forehead rest against his shoulder and chin so the little boy can hide from the world and all the dead bodies around them. 

The comfort of arms around him reassures the small child; the touch of stubble against his cheek makes him start. He looks up and reaches a cautious hand towards Castiel’s chin. When Castiel doesn’t discourage him, the boy feels his face, with a few sniffs through a very runny nose and a couple of mumbled words. When Castiel smiles reassuringly beneath the dirty fingers exploring his mouth, the little boy smiles too, timorously at first, then wider, and after a few seconds he giggles.

It’s an amazing sound, even for an angel who has heard the thunder of stars being born.

He finally looks back at Dean, who’s slumped in the sand. His lover is staring at them, his breath fast and choked with blood, or possibly sobs. His face is such a mess of blood and bruises, it’s hard to tell, but Castiel thinks he might be crying. 

“Sorry. God, Cas, I’m so sorry. I thought-” Dean coughs, a ragged sound, and his eyes flicker shut, his face white beneath the smears of red.

“I know what you thought.” Castiel glances down at the child in his arms. “I’m an angel. A soldier. A killer. A rebel, a one-time fallen god- and I’ve made so many, many mistakes. But this? I am not this, Dean. I am not a monster, and I could never hurt your son.”

Dean chokes something - another ‘sorry’, probably. His eyes are still shut, head bowed, as if he can’t even bear to look at Castiel and see… what? Reproach? As if Castiel has anything to blame him for… 

“It’s alright,” Castiel says softly, talking over the little head on his shoulder. “I know you couldn't take the chance. Not with this. Especially when I tried to kill the last cambion I met. And being the… how did you put it? Heaven’s hitman? I can see-”

Dean flinches. His hands curl into fists in the sand. “Cas- I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, I was-”

“But you weren’t wrong.” A review of his past year’s actions is playing through his mind. The angels he’d killed when maybe a bit more persuasion would have done the trick; the nephilim child; the unquestioning obedience that had soothed some of his guilt towards his fellow angels, but which had made him fall back into old patterns. “I failed to exert proper judgment. Again. I really need to learn to do better. Especially now, since our life has once more gotten complicated, and I have a brand new charge.” He jiggles the boy and the child, who’s been staring at him in fascination, giggles a second time. Castiel was imitating a gesture he’s seen throughout human history, and he’s inordinately pleased at its success - surprised too, because he’d not find it amusing to get bounced around like that, but it seems children are built differently. 

The boy’s cheek is smooth and pink, tiny and yet perfect, and Castiel finds himself pressing his own cheek against it again without any intention of doing so. 

“You smell like apple sauce,” he informs the boy solemnly, looking down again. “And toffee. And a lot of dirt.”

The boy puts his fingers in his mouth (absorbing a large quantity of mud and various other substances) and sucks them with a wet sound. His nose and chin are covered in snot, and his eyes are still swimming with tears, but he’s calm now, focusing on Castiel to the exclusion of anything else.

“Your name is Robert, right?” The name Robert Samuel Winchester blossoms like a flower in the human half of the boy’s soul, away from the clawed fanged darkness that will unfurl into a Knight of Hell one day. An odious combination to any angel, surely.

Robert looks around - Castiel stops him from looking too far and catching sight of anything upsetting. Robert squirms against the restriction, makes a curious sort of clucking noise and mumbles a few words around the fingers still in his mouth. Castiel makes out “dada” and little else.

What he is holding so close should be an abomination to his eyes, but it’s not. In the past ten years, Castiel has had to work with demons and kill angels, he’s seen the underbelly of creation, he’s poked at the seams. Yes, sometimes he’s still too dogmatic, too quick to have faith rather than question, too much of an angel, but there is a man who has taught him that the world is stranger and more complicated than Divine Writ would have it. Reality is as messy and mixed up as a human soul meshing with a demon’s, perpetually spinning together like yin and yang. The Apocalypse showed Castiel that even angels can fail and fall, and even cambions can rise above their lineage with the right upbringing. What he sees here is not an abomination, not horrendous. It’s Robert, Dean’s son and the other half of his heart. This little life, however marred and different, is sacred. 

“Robert, why don’t we go over and help your father before he loses any more of that stuff inside that humans need to survive,” Castiel suggests gravely.

Robert doesn’t say this is a splendid idea, or ask any pertinent questions. He seems fascinated by Castiel’s voice.

Oh, but first…

“If I let you move, are you going to attack me again?” Castiel asks, glancing around.

“Uuuh, ‘f Dean’s good, ’m good,” Charlie says woozily as she props herself up on her elbows, barely awake. 

“Let me up and I will take it under advisement,” Rowena says off to one side in a very nasty tone of voice. When she fell down earlier, it was in an uncomfortable (and slightly ridiculous) pose, and her lace dress and long red hair are now quite hopelessly full of sand. 

A wave of his grace restores the autonomy of her nervous system, and takes the remains of befuddlement out of Charlie’s psyche. He keeps himself interposed between Rowena and Robert just in case, but both women ignore him as they scramble towards each other, both intent on helping the other up. Castiel lets them manage and strides towards Dean. The hunter is struggling to sit despite the terrible cuts and contusions to his abdomen, and the concussion making his world hopelessly spin. 

A touch to the forehead heals and cleanses. Dean gasps and blinks, his eyelashes no longer gummed half shut with blood. Castiel helps him to his feet, and slips the boy, now eagerly reaching for him, into his arms. Dean presses the child to his chest, looking down at him-... oh, such a look on his face. Botticelli could redo all his paintings of the Madonna (he’d gotten them quite wrong anyway, especially her nose) and just use that look instead...

Then Dean reaches out with the other arm sight unseen, hooks Castiel around the neck and hauls him into an extension of the same hug.

Castiel staggers as muddy sand shifts beneath his feet. As he rights himself, his arm quite naturally anchors around Dean’s back, and the other arm around his shoulder presses both his lover and the child into Castiel’s chest. In his embrace, Dean’s soul shines like never before, like a beacon, like the light divine that spilled out once over Eden, pure and warm and all-encompassing.

The feeling that runs through Castiel right then… it is so deep, so resonant, so full of wonder, it is a revelation… This… this right here… is the best thing to have ever happened to him in all his eons of existence, more just and righteous than any duty from on high. This moment is holy. 

“We need to get away, more demons are going to show up,” says an annoying angel who apparently has no qualms in cutting this moment short, however blasphemous the notion. Castiel wants to kick himself as Dean shifts and sighs, muscles tensing. Damn it- but they’ll have other occasions for this. As long as Dean and his son are safe, and they are going to be safe from now on. They’re going to be _very_ safe. 

That determination is as serious as a vow, but still he doesn’t move right away, keeps his arm around Dean’s shoulder. Dean is warm against him, breathing softly, and Robert is burbling and pulling at his father’s shirt. He still smells like apple sauce, and a bit like Dean now - and also like a coil of demonic energy, and the reek of the Mark, which is going to be a problem one day, even if a cambion will undoubtedly have the power of a Knight of Hell to control its corruption better than a human could. But that is just part of what he is. They will ‘figure it out’ as Dean would undoubtedly say.

They have something to defend, after all. Something that matters. 

“Come on,” Castiel says softly, moving to Dean’s side, hands on his shoulders as he guides his family towards the distant Impala and the future. “Come on, let’s take you both home.”

 

\---

 

Final Chapter: Road Trip

In which an old sinner is buried and someone mentions tricycles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly done. 
> 
> As you can imagine, there's still some stuff to sort out between them - heavy annoying emotional _stuff_ , sorry, Dean - but the epilogue will mainly deal with how the situation finally stabilizes.


	16. Road Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an old sinner is buried and someone mentions tricycles.

**The future.**

“Dean, eyes front.”

Dean quickly brings his attention back to the road and pretends he was focusing on traffic all along. 

Sam, riding shotgun, rolls his eyes and goes back to scrolling through his phone. 

“Oh, ow,” he suddenly mutters.

“What?”

“Message from Charlie. She and Rowena are heading to Vegas next.”

Dean contemplates Las Vegas facing off against the double deckered red menace and decides his money is not on Vice City.

“Well, they deserve to have fun,” he says philosophically. “And that place was a pit, anyway.”

They’ll be seeing those two forces of nature again soon, he’s sure. It goes without saying that both ladies have their own rooms assigned and ever ready for them back at the bunker. But after both battles and babysitting, they deserve some free time. And Dean has another set of strong steady hands to help with Rob now.

“Dude, let me drive already,” Sam groans, glancing up from his phone with an epic bitch face.

Dean tears his gaze away from the rear view mirror, but he can still see the scene in his mind’s eye. 

Cas is sitting back there with this air about him, same look he’s always got these days: serious, mindful, deeply contented. Like a dog, Dean told him - because he can still be a jerk at times, when emotions run too high. But that’s what that look makes him think of: one of those huge faithful fluffy pooches who's accepted that this new squirming squalling thing the masters brought home from the hospital is part of the family, and can’t be more delighted as he patrols around the crib. Cas - who’d been in Dean’s bed at the time, where he rightfully belongs - looked inordinately pleased at the comparison, the goof, instead of royally pissed off. 

Seems the only thing Dean can say these days that does offend Cas is when Dean tries to apologize yet again. The way Dean sees it, he’s due to apologize until the third millenia rolls around for all the screw ups and the lack of trust around Robbie’s birth. And then Cas explains once again that he understands why Dean couldn’t trust him, what with his past mistakes. Dean counters with 'bullshit'; Cas has changed so much since he came to earth, Dean _should_ have trusted him - so Cas has to remind him of the all the killing he'd been doing last year and of Dean's very legitimate distrust of the Host (still hunting them, though somewhat fitfully, because it seems the new Winchester family scares the bejesus out of them) and then Dean says-

The argument kept flaring up, biting its own ass for weeks, until its latest iteration last Tuesday in the bunker. Cas abruptly put Robbie in Sam’s arm, dragged Dean out of the room, sat him down hard in a kitchen chair with a hand over his mouth and the other on his shoulder, and held him that way with his angelic strength- which was, of course, way high-handed of him, but Cas still has a very large credit running in the Dean’s Patience For Overbearing Shit bank 

Then Cas talked for what felt like a long time - any time feels like a long time when you have an angel half crushing you down in a chair - and told Dean -... well, he said a lot, but it essentially boiled down to, ‘we both made mistakes, but to err is human, to forgive is divine and between the Righteous Man and an angel, we should have that covered. Now shut up about it, at this point you’re just needlessly beating yourself up and making us both miserable.’ He wouldn’t let Dean up again or take that mitt off of Dean’s mouth until the latter grumpily nodded agreement, and the subject has now been permanently shelved. 

Dean’s still planning to beat himself up over his mistake for the foreseeable future, just not out loud. Maybe that’s why he let loose that ‘dog’ jibe, though; maybe a part of him wants to stress test this connection between them, this ever-more solid bond, just to see if Cas really meant it, if he’s not going to hit Dean upside the head with the latter’s lack of trust if push comes to shove. 

Well, Cas hasn’t done that so far, and as for the dog thing, he didn’t seem bothered by it. Neither does he seem bothered that he’s not ‘uncle Cas’ the way Sam is ‘uncle Sammy’ or Charlie is ‘aunty cool’. More of that ever-steady patient faithful angel bullshit, probably. Or maybe, just maybe Cas has wised up enough to know humans in general and Dean in particular, enough to figure out that the reason he’s not ‘uncle Cas’ is because he’ll be ‘other daddy’ in a few months time, a year tops... 

Uncle or dog, overbearing angel or dad, either way Cas seems to be fine with it. He is currently entertaining Robbie with the same serious concentration he does anything, dangling a ring of joyfully colored plastic car keys for grabby hands, and telling the kid softly about navigating the dream plane and how they might do that together some day. 

First family road trip, and Dean is going to drive them all into a ditch, but damned if he can keep his eyes off the rear-view mirror.

“Oh, exit 18. Here, turn here,” says Sam, slipping his phone into his pocket and focusing on their course.

The road winds up and down and then up a hell of a lot more. It’s pleasant out, the summer sun beats down on Baby, the mountains rear around them, fresh and high, peaks towering to either side, animals occasionally dodging the wheels. To start with, it’s busy, people heading to camp grounds. But eventually the map Rowena oracled up for them leads them further and further away from the beaten path, past small lakes, run-down boat-houses, private land skirted in barbwire, logging areas, pastures, up a col and down along a barely-there dirt road to a pasture between peaks and a ramshackle one-room cabin beyond. 

Baby’s brakes squeal. Once her motor is shut off, it feels very, very quiet in the dell, just the ping of metal cooling and a few bird chirps.

“Stay near the car with Rob,” Dean says softly, opening the door. Sam looks like he wants to object, but Cas draws his angel blade and steps out of the car purposely, and that’s that.

Thirty feet from the cabin, in the shade of a lone poplar tree, is where they find the grave. Cain laid himself down there after he dug it. The body’s weathered these past two years, but it is still surprisingly recognizable; seems no animal around here has been dumb enough to even go near it, not even the worms and the rot. 

“The Mark left him, and he was finally able to die,” Cas says quietly. “The oldest sinner, one of the first men to walk this earth.”

“What does this mean for Rob?” Dean asks, before biting his lip.

As one, they look back. Fifty feet away, near the car, Sam’s let a fidgety and increasingly cranky Robbie out to play in the prairie near the Impala. The kid’s stretched those chubby legs, and he’s now yanking out grass seeds to feed them to his plastic giraffe, while giving any flowers he finds to his uncle to hold. One day he’ll be playing with plastic soldiers which are going to get stuck in Baby’s crevices all over again. But he’s not getting hold of that kind of toy until he stops putting everything in his mouth for an experimental chew. 

“I don't know what it means,” Castiel admits. “Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“What if…” The possibilities hovering over his son are too large, dark and nebulous to fully put into words.

Silent, they both face the grave again, staring down at the corpse resting there. 

“I know the universe doesn't work this way… but I still think intentions matter,” Cas finally says. “Robert took upon himself not only your Mark of sin, but Cain's as well. The nobility of that decision-”

“He was still under construction, dude, it was hardly his choice.”

“No, that’s not right.”

“Whaddya mean, of course he was, he was-”

“Cambion and other truly powerful entities exist in a fluid state in time, so to speak. You can’t put a human frame of reference on that. For beings such as Robert, choices of this magnitude are made at a higher level of fate. Your son took this grave decision-”

“The one currently eating his booger?” says Dean, having mastered parental radar for misbehaving. He lifts his voice on the last three words, and Sam stops watching them while pretending to entertain Robbie, and starts to actually look after his nephew, dropping the flowers and getting dirty fingers out of a small mouth. 

“I think you know what I mean,” says Castiel patiently. 

Dean does. Sort of. Human mind frame or not, he’s been dealing with some pretty heavy shit these past few years, he can throw the words Apocalypse, Cosmic and World-changing around with the best of them. Doesn’t mean he has to like it. The Mark had been his decision, his burden to bear. 

“I just wish-” he bursts out and then stops and waves a vague hand around, because what the hell does he wish for, huh? Sure, a lot of things, but that’s like a djinn dream, right? You wish you can extirpate the crap, and then when you turn around, yeah, the crap is gone but you also lost everything good in your life too, the stuff that arrived along with it, even because of it. And if there’s one thing Dean will never wish to change, it’s that kid back there, or the angel at his side. Come what may.

“Yes,” says Cas as if he’s followed every step of Dean’s unarticulated thought process. “It is what it is. And inevitably, it will be what it will be.” Then Cas smiles in a way that goes all the way down to Dean's boots via his soul. “I think it will be phenomenal. Or to use your favorite term-”

“Awesome, pff, right.”

“What would you say then?”

“I'd start at complicated and work my way down,” grumbles Dean, who has long ago figured out that walking around with a heart glowing with happiness is just begging for the universe to retaliate.

They fill in the grave of the old sinner, and then head back to the car and a future filled with danger and diapers, demons and a tricycle, angry angels and a long-running argument about the advantages of the Impala versus a minivan.

Yeah, it’s going to be real complicated. 

And also pretty awesome.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, done! This was a tough one, but it turned out better than I thought it would when I posted the first chapter. Thank you all so much for the kudos and comments, they really did help me through the rough patches.
> 
> I have no less than five SPN projects currently kicking around; the plot bunnies just won't leave me alone, but neither will they actually let me finish anything. I need to pick a project and stick with it ^^; They're all wildly different in tone, from PG romantic comedy to virtual PWP and everything in between, and I keep flitting from one to the other in ways that are not productive *sigh* Feel free to suggest a preference, it might help me make up my mind...


End file.
